


Signed, Sealed, Delivered

by SpicyCheese



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Postal Carrier AU, also food porn, and Harry Potter spoilers? I guess?, meets Rear Window AU?, plot with eventual porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-05-28 09:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6323779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyCheese/pseuds/SpicyCheese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forced to take 6 weeks of medical leave after fracturing her leg, Detective Sameen Shaw is going out of her mind with boredom. So when the precinct's IT guy, Harold Finch, approaches her with an offer to dog/house sit for him (in his considerably nicer apartment) she quickly agrees to the upgrade. She settles into the nicer surroundings easily, but finds very little there to keep her occupied. That is, until she meet's Finch's postal carrier. The tall, annoying, and super intrusive postal carrier. After that, things get exponentially more interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started as a joke about all the ridiculously cheesy innuendos that Root could make if she was posing as a mail carrier and how any attempt at writing a fic like that would just sound like a bad porn…
> 
> So of course I wrote a fic about it. It was _supposed_ to be a very small one-shot fic (basically an excuse for smut) but of course it's somehow morphed into this multi-chapter behemoth of a story. Enjoy!

*_*_*_*_*

 

“I’m only in this for the dog.”

Harold Finch nods in acknowledgement as he moves aside to let the detective by. Shaw makes her way through the doorway awkwardly, the heavy pack on her back affecting her equilibrium as she tries to navigate using the crutches.

Once inside, she shucks off the backpack, depositing it with a _THUNK_ underneath the large bay window next to the door. She leaves it where it lands, moving on to quickly crutch her way a few more strides to the couch before collapsing onto it.

Finch closes the door quietly, before making his way back to the weary detective. Shaw has her eyes closed, letting herself sink deeper into the plush cushions while Finch stands awkwardly near the arm rest, unsure of exactly how to proceed.

A moment passes before he stutters to a start once more. "Yes… well… let me start by thanking you for your assistance. I’ve had difficulty finding anyone suitable to watch Bear and the house while I'm on leave, especially for the duration of a full month. When I heard from Detective Fusco that you were on medical leave, I thought that we might be able to come to a mutually beneficial arrangement."

Shaw opens her eyes once more, and stares at Harold. “They’ve benched me for the next 6 weeks until I get this off,” she gestures to the cast encasing her left leg from foot to lower thigh. “Figured why not upgrade my surroundings in a place with less stairs.” Shaw glances around the room, her gaze landing on the 70” big screen TV in front of her. “Definitely an upgrade.”

“Indeed.” Harold furrows his brow, still looking down at her. He tries to dismiss the last of his reservations, shaking them off before continuing. “When you’re able, I’d like to show you the layout and the instructions.”

Shaw clenches her jaw slightly at the insinuation. “Oh, I’m able. I can get around _just_... _fine_ …” She grits out the last two words as she hauls herself to a standing position once more. She grabs the crutches, shoving them angrily under her arms. “People assume just because I’m hurt, that I’m fucking useless all of a sudden. It pisses me off…” she grumbles.

“Yes, I do believe I have some insight into that,” Harold says a bit tersely. He turns and makes his way quickly towards the kitchen. Shaw bites the inside of her cheek, feeling properly chided, her own limp mirroring his as she follows.

The apartment’s floor plan is quite open. The front door opens to the large living room with dining room area just behind it. The large bay window, currently vending a thin strip of early morning between the drawn curtains, occupies most of the front wall of the apartment. The large screen TV is mounted a few feet in front of it on the adjacent wall, and a glass coffee table (complete with fancy-ass looking flowers in a fancy-ass looking crystal vase) sits between that and and the plush couch Shaw had previously occupied. A small buffet table is lined up against the back of the couch, with a small pile of boxed packages sitting underneath it. Bookcases seem to line all other available wall space after the TV and all the way back. Further in is a dining area, table currently covered in a layer of books and papers - in what appears to be the only disorganized part of the meticulously clean apartment - and towards the back is the kitchen, where Harold has stopped, waiting for Shaw to join him.

A large kitchen island sits in the middle separating the kitchen area from the rest, complete with breakfast bar on the living room side. Shaw leans against one of the barstool chairs pulled up under it, as she waits for his next instructions.

“Bear’s food is here,” Finch continues, opening one of the lower cabinets to show the small detective. “He gets one scoop in the morning and one at night. He has some treats as well, here, however I ask that you utilize them sparingly, as he is on a strict regimen.”

“Where is he anyway?” she asks, only just noticing the dog’s absence.

“My dog walker, Nancy, will be returning him shortly. I have her number here,” he points to a typed list on the counter, “In case you decide to utilize her services.”

“Lionel is gonna swing by and walk him a couple evenings a week. He’s worked with him at the precinct, so I know Bear likes him, and he’s promised to bring me a regular supply of sandwiches. So he’d better follow through. I’ll be fine.” Shaw says, absently picking through the bowl of fruit on the counter.

“There are several other numbers on that sheet as well, should any other issues with Bear or the house arise.”

Shaw nods in understanding and follows Harold as he leaves the kitchen and turns down the back hallway. The carpet there is more plush than in the living room and Shaw readjusts her grip on the crutches to stabilize herself.

“Linen closet here,” Harold pauses, pointing to a door on Shaw’s left, “And this is my office here,” he gestures to a door on Shaw’s right. “It’s locked, and should stay that way. I have some rather delicate equipment that I’d rather not have disturbed.” Harold continues down the hallway and Shaw lets her curiosity linger on the office door for an extra moment before continuing on.

The hallway dead-ends with two doors facing each other on either side. “The guest bathroom is here,” he says motioning to the door to Shaw’s right. “And you’ll be staying in the master bedroom here.” He heads inside and Shaw follows.

Like the rest of the apartment, the bedroom is sparsely decorated but the furnishings present are of exceptionally high quality. There is a dresser and closet to the left of the bed, and the bed itself looks to be made of a rich, dark wood.

It’s bracketed by two small night stands near the headboard and a there’s a bench seat capping the foot. Shaw makes her way to the bench and sits. She runs a hand over the comforter, noting the high thread count. “Nice,” she adds, before running a thumb along the sturdy dark wood of the bedframe. “Way too nice for someone who just works IT for the precinct.”

“Yes, as I’m sure you’ve deduced Ms. Shaw, I do engage in my share of moonlighting. Mostly programming and computer work. I’m a very private person, so I hope that bit of information can remain between us?”

“Discretion is my middle name.” Shaw says, hoisting herself back up once more.

“Good,” Finch nods. “Which bring me to another small request, follow me please,” He heads back towards the living room, and she follows. As they exit the small hallway and return to the great room, Shaw’s leg twinges slightly. She checks her watch discretely, swearing under her breath and hoping that the tour is coming to a close. As much as she hates to admit weakness, the former doctor in her knows she should get off her feet soon and elevate her leg.

Finch stops near the door once more, and Shaw sits on the armrest of the couch, waiting.

“For my… side work, I often receive packages. It’s important that these do not get left outside so I’d ask that you please sign for and receive any that may arrive while you’re home. Simply take them in, and set them aside next to the dining table.”

Shaw crosses her arms, almost reaching the max of her patience. “Sure. Fine. Anything else?”

Harold purses his lips and Shaw wonders if his patience is fraying as well. At work, they only really interact when necessary- which seems to suit them both just fine. She’s always appreciated his abilities and efficiency, but they are by no means close friends. In fact, she was quite surprised that Harold had approached her to house and dog sit for him at all, but she supposes it doesn’t matter now. Both of them are getting what they need out of the deal, and she’ll at least get to recouperate with the only acceptable company worth having- herself and the dog.

“No, I think that’ll be all,” Finch concludes. “While you’re here please make yourself at home, however I ask that you please not have any…” He searches for a suitable word and settles for “… _company_ , of any kind, while you’re here. As I said, I’m a very private person, and I’m entrusting you to please maintain that privacy.”

“I’m not exactly in any condition to throw any ragers, Harold,” Shaw says, rolling her eyes and rapping her knuckles on the cast lightly.

“Yes, well then I-“ Finch is cut short by a knock on the door. “That must be Nancy, excuse me.” He turns and looks through the peephole before opening the door slightly.

From Shaw’s spot on the arm of the couch, she can’t see or really hear whomever he’s speaking with, but Bear slips past Finch’s legs and pads in so Shaw is happy to shift her attention to the big dog instead. Bear nuzzles her hand and has moved on to licking her face as Harold closes the door and joins her near the couch once more. “I see you’re already settling in with Bear,” He says, smiling slightly.

“We’re gonna have such a good time aren’t we boy? Aren’t we?” she coos to the dog that now sits between her legs.

 Accepting that he would likely lose any battle for Shaw’s attention now that Bear was in the picture, Harold grabs his hat and the rolling suitcase sitting by the door. “I’ll leave you both to it then. The house’s security alarm code is 31, 41, 59, which is also written on the instruction sheet. Please do call if you have any questions.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, will do.” Shaw says absently, opting to focus on scratching the furry tummy that Bear’s now giving her access to.

Finch nods, more to himself since Shaw’s attention is elsewhere, and proceeds to head out. The door closes behind him with a soft *click* that Shaw only registers minutes later, when the silence in the large apartment finally settles on her.

She carefully slides herself from the arm of the sofa onto the cushion below, and Bear is quick to come around and hop up beside her. There’s a dull throbbing in her leg now, reminding her that it’s almost time for more ibuprofen, but outside of that she feels good. Tired, but good.

She slouches down a bit further, nestling into the couch and propping her leg, and grabs the remote from the buffet table behind her.

“Whatdaya think? Should we take this big- ass TV for a spin?”

Bear tilts his head to the side, as if considering her proposal. Shaw smirks, “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.” She scratches him behind the ears for a moment, before pushing the remote’s power button, and settling in for a comfortable day.

 

*_*_*_*_*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal thanks to [seasaltandsawdust](http://archiveofourown.org/users/seasaltandsawdust/profile/) for her patience and superb beta-ing. Comments, critiques, questions, and anything else are welcome here or on my [Tumblr](http://spicycheeser.tumblr.com/).


	2. Chapter 2

*_*_*_*_*

 

While the sheer size of the TV is a novelty Shaw can appreciate, it does nothing to improve the content. Mid-morning programming leaving a lot to be desired, it’s only about 30 minutes of clicking around before she shuts it off with disgust and tosses the control aside.

The remote skitters slowly across the glass coffee table before hitting the base of the crystal flower vase. Shaw makes a lunge for it, as it threatens to tip over, catching it at the last moment. She lets her muscles relax, breathing out a sigh of relief, before righting the vase. The thing probably costs more than her yearly salary.

Shaw sits at the edge of the couch now, and Bear lifts his head from his spot curled by her feet, anticipating her next move.

“What do you say, buddy? Should we start our unofficial tour?”

Bear wags his tail and Shaw gets to her feet (or foot rather) as best she can. Bookcases line most of the wall space of the apartment, all the way back to the kitchen area, and Shaw starts with the one closest. Given how secretive and paranoid Finch appears, Shaw has a hunch she wants to explore. She scans the spines of each book in an unfocused way, letting the titles wash over her consciousness rather than reading them. She’s not exactly looking for a name, she’s looking for…

_Got it._

Shaw grins, spotting the book with little trouble. It’s a thick tome and the title might not even be in English, though it’s impossible to tell with the wear and tear on the binding. It doesn’t matter what it’s called anyway, what matters is the area in front of it. The shelf it rests on has a fine layer of dust in front of every other book except that one, leading Shaw to believe it’s touched and removed more often and/or very recently. She plucks it off the shelf eagerly and her suspicions are confirmed as opening it reveals a hollowed out space containing a small box for storage.

Shaw has always known how to read people, and most (especially “very private” ones) are predictable. Everyone has something to hide and with that many books, Shaw had figured whatever little secret Harold Finch was hiding, might just be inside one of them.

Balancing the open book on one arm, she opens the small tin box to reveal a small jar of marijuana, an expensive looking grinder, and a pack of rolling papers. Picking up the jar, she chuckles appreciatively; it’s not often people _truly_ surprise her, and this wasn’t what she was expecting at all. Twisting open the jar and taking a light sniff, she confirms her suspicion that Harold’s expensive taste extends to all areas of his life. “Can’t believe you didn’t tell me Finch was a stoner,” she says, glancing accusingly at the dog.

Bear has little to say on the subject so she moves to put the drugs back… and that’s when she notices there are other things at the bottom of the tin. There’s a small silver key, and a USB drive in there as well. Shaw stares at them for a prolonged moment before returning the jar, closing everything up and slipping the book back in place. There’s intrusive and then there’s invasive and Shaw has no interest in the latter (at least not right now).

She moves along, now taking the time to actually peruse the titles of the books as well. They vary greatly, subject matter covering everything from history to mathematical theory. She slowly makes her way along the bookcases and by the time she reaches the kitchen area it’s almost noontime. She’s been on her feet far too long. Again.

Her leg aches, as does her stomach, and somehow in the short few strides it takes to reach the fridge, she goes from hungry to ravenous. Resisting the temptation to eat deli meat right out of the package, she grudgingly takes the extra few minutes to assemble a proper sandwich- or at least to put the meat between bread and slather it with spicy mustard. The ham is slightly slimy and Shaw makes a mental note to sign up for one of those online grocery delivery programs ASAP.

Shaw takes her hastily constructed lunch and settles herself at the breakfast bar, but she’s not more than a single bite into it when she hears a strange scratching sound at the door.

Frowning, she pauses mid-chew to hear better, wondering if she imagined it. The sound continues however and it sounds like the _scritch-scritch_ of metal on metal. Glancing at Bear, she sees his attention is raptly focused towards the door as well.

As a rule, Shaw doesn’t let anyone or anything get between her and a meal. She looks at the sandwich still in hand and her stomach gives an extra timely growl, almost as if insisting that she ignores the sound in favor of finishing lunch in peace. In the end though Shaw grabs her crutches (and the sandwich), and makes her way to the door, crumbs be damned.

Reaching the door though, her irritation is renewed as she realizes the peephole is about an inch too tall for her. Shaw rolls her eyes, commands Bear to ‘stay’ and throws open the door so quickly that the person crouched down on the other side nearly falls down the stairs from surprise.

The woman recovers quickly though, standing up and smiling at Shaw as she does. Now at full height, Shaw pauses a moment to take in the interloper. After a quick review, two things stick out the most: First is the ubiquitous, drab, blue-on-blue uniform identifying the woman as a postal employee. Second is how obnoxiously tall she is.

“What the hell are you doing?” Shaw asks bluntly, hoping her tone will be enough to send the stranger packing.

The postal woman doesn’t seem put-off at all. In fact, she grins wider, taking a moment to let her gaze meander slowly up and down the length of Shaw’s body, pausing at her cast, before answering. “Just dropping off a package,” the taller woman states, pointing to the ground, just left of the door. Shaw follows the gesture and notes the square 5” x 5” brown package sitting just under the bronze mail slot.

“It’s not going to fit in there, you know,” Shaw says, before taking a huge bite of sandwich.

The woman watches Shaw chew for a moment before responding. “Of course it won’t. I was just going to leave a note saying it could be picked up at the distribution center; I didn’t think anyone was home. Do you live here as well?”

Shaw narrows her eyes, taking another large bite, chewing it slowly while she glares at the postal employee. She takes her time, letting this woman wait in - what Shaw hopes at least - is an uncomfortable silence equal to the irritation she feels at having her lunch interrupted. Strangely, the woman does not look uncomfortable at all. Instead she waits patiently, her content smile manages to hold Shaw’s own scowl at bay effortlessly- which Shaw finds even more annoying.

Shaw finally responds. “Whatever. Just give me that,” she says, gesturing to the package on the ground.

The woman quirks an eyebrow, but complies, moving forward and stooping her ridiculously tall frame down to retrieve it. When she rights herself though, she’s much closer - less than a foot away - and _well_ inside Shaw’s preferred bubble of personal space. The woman grins wider and Shaw feels her stomach clench, coupled with the overwhelming urge to punch the smile right off her face.

“Here,” the employee says, handing Shaw the box. “Can I… help you with anything else?” The words ooze out, saccharine sweet, though the accompanying look implies something far from innocent.

The overt come on is a bold move, which Shaw can always appreciate … but it’s not nearly enough to outweigh the annoyance of ruining Shaw’s lunch. The detective wrinkles her nose, grabs the box roughly and levels a nasty glare before adding lowly, “Don’t leave them on the porch. Just knock and I’ll take them.” Before the woman can reply, Shaw shoves the last of her sandwich in her mouth, steps back, and slams the door in the woman’s face.

She sports a satisfied grin as she crutches her way to the dining room to drop off the package, as instructed. With any luck, her rudeness will be enough to squelch any future attempts at conversation the Amazonian postal carrier might make.

 

*

 

The rest of Shaw’s day slides by easily and it’s not long before there’s another knock on the door, this time an expected one. Bear growls protectively at the entryway until Shaw quietly commands him to lay down. He complies, and goes back to gnawing on the dinosaur-sized bone she gifted him earlier.

When she does finally get to the door, she opens it and is greeted by the familiar sight of Detective Lionel Fusco, looking as put out as ever. She greets him with a frown of her own until she spies the bags of takeout in his hand, and her stomach gives an impatient growl at the sight of it. “What took you so long? I’m starving.”

“Good to see you too, Peg-Leg. You’re looking awfully cozy.”

Shaw glances down at her current apparel, navy blue tear away track pants and a faded green _Marines_ t shirt, an outfit born out of necessity and a far cry from her preferred black on black work ensemble. She rolls her eyes at her partner and turns around, heading towards the kitchen in the back. “Yeah, well, if you can find something else that can fit over this friggin’ cast, let me know.”

“I got some grey sweats you can borrow,” Fusco smirks, before letting himself in. He closes the door behind him and pauses briefly, letting his eyes roam over the room. “Geezus, how does Glasses afford such a cushy place?”

“Personally,” Shaw begins, as she settles herself at the breakfast bar. “I don’t want to know.”

“Yeah, well, looks like you’ve hit the Med-Leave jackpot. Whatta place to recoup…”

Arriving next to her now, Fusco has barely placed the bags down on the counter before Shaw begins tearing into them. Unfazed - he’s seen her eat often enough to know this is how it goes - he looks around the room once more. “If Four-Eyes has this kinda money, you’d think he’d have some kinda personal chef or somethin’ too.”

Shaw attacks the sub sandwich, ripping a huge piece off. “Guess not,” she mouths around the bite. She takes a few moments to chew, brow furrowing, before adding, “Where’d you get this? ‘Cause it’s _not_ Abbandanzio’s…”

“DeLucci’s.”

“Hmft,” she grunts, rolling her eyes. “Abbandanzio’s has better pastrami,” she mutters before taking several more bites.

“Yeah, well, in case you forgot, I’m a Detective, not a catering service. I’m helpin’ you outta the goodness of my heart so you get whatever’s on the way here,” he huffs, crossing his arms. “And speakin’ of helpin’, where’s your buddy at?” Fusco looks around briefly before putting two fingers in his mouth, and emitting a loud whistle.

Almost immediately, Bear abandons the bone and bounds over, letting out an excited _wuff,_ at the familiar sight of Fusco.

“Hey buddy,” he says, giving Bear a brief scratch behind the ears before grabbing the leash off the counter where Shaw had left it earlier, hooking it to Bear’s collar. “I’ll take this guy for a walk now. I’d rather not watch you eat anyway, whenever I can help it. Makes me nauseated.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve always had a weak stomach Lionel…” Shaw smirks, finishing the last of her sandwich. There’s mustard and hot sauce dribble down her chin, and she wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand before moving on to the fries.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” He mutters over his shoulder, before heading out the door with Bear.

Alone once more, and the threat of Lionel poaching some of her dinner eliminated, Shaw slows her munching slightly and rifles through the remaining bag. There’s a second box of fries, extra condiments, and the receipt. She absently reads the slip while digging into the second box of fries. DeLucci’s, it seems, is about $2 cheaper per sandwich than her usual place. “Lionel, you cheap bastard…” she mutters.

She makes quick work of the rest of the fries and and maybe a half hour later Fusco returns, huffing as he unhooks Bear from the leash. “You need anything else before I go, Tripod?”

“Yeah, I need you to stop being such a fucking tightwad and bring some quality food next time. You do know Finch is going to cover whatever you spend right?”

“Geez, you turn into a real princess when you’re hurt don’t you?” He smirks.

“Lionel…” She warns, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Fine, fine. Whatever you say _, Your Majesty_.” He makes a sloppy curtsey, holding the edges of his suit jacket out and bending slightly at the knees.

“You know I could snap you in two, right?”

“Yeah well, I think I can outrun you at the moment,” he jokes as he opens the door to go. “Same time, Thursday?”

“Yeah, but bring something good next time will you?”

Despite the chuckle that follows him out as the door slips shut behind him, Shaw has no doubt he’ll bring one of her favorites next time he visits.

 

*_*_*_*_*

 

Shaw accidentally sleeps in until 8:30am the next day, a whopping 3 hours later than her norm. She’s pissed and blames Finch’s freakishly comfortable bed for the delineation from her normal routine. She ignores the upside (the fact that this is the first morning since her injury that she hasn’t woken up with her leg and hip throbbing) and instead opts to focus on how she can make up for the time stolen from her.

The first productive thing she can think of is taking Bear for a long walk, so she hastily makes preparations to do so. So far, her own extent of taking the poor dog out has consisted of her sitting on the steps outside last night and letting him run out the lead nearby sniffing trees.

Shaw throws on her clothes from yesterday, hooks him up to his leash, sets the security alarm and heads out the front door. Bear heels to her well, but holding the leash while trying to navigate the bustling sidewalk soon proves difficult. They’ve only gone a block or so but it’s only getting more awkward and frustrating, so when her leg begins its first aching protests of the day, she decides to re-evaluate her options.

They end up turning around and slowly making their way to the park a few apartments over and across the street from Finch’s. Once there, Shaw slumps down on the nearest bench and unhooks Bear’s leash, releasing him to chase squirrels or whatever else he can find. At least one of them has energy to burn.

Shaw’s not used to her body betraying her and the frustration from that keeps her anger simmering long after she’s collected Bear and returned to the apartment. In fact, it’s still burning strong at 2pm when she hears a knock at the door.

Bear gets there first, sniffing briefly before starting to paw at the door excitedly, tail wagging.

“Down boy. _Zitten_. Geez, what’s got into you?” She asks, before moving to open the door. Once she does, she’s surprised to find the tall postal carrier from the previous day, smiling and holding a small package. “Got another package for you,” she grins. ”A little smaller, but still too big for the slot.”

Shaw wordlessly extends her hand to receive it but the woman offers a clipboard instead.

“You have to sign for this one,” the worker says, in way of explanation, to which Shaw just lets her scowl deepen. Still, she grabs the clipboard and begins to hastily fill out the sheet.

“Your boyfriend sure seems to get a lot of packages,” The woman continues conversationally. “I’ve been walking this route for a while now- seems like he gets at least two to three a week. What’s in them?”

“None of your business and not my boyfriend,” Shaw grits out, signing her name with an extra anger-powered flourish before shoving the clipboard back into the obnoxiously chatty postal employee’s hands.

“He’s not? Well, I can’t say I’m sorry to hear that,” The taller woman grins, though she doesn’t look up and her attention appears focused on reviewing the form. Before Shaw can fully process the fact that Finch’s mail carrier seems to be flirting with her AGAIN, the woman slides the clipboard back into her bag and meets Shaw’s attention once more. “So he’s, what? Just a friend then? Or do you work with him at the Precinct?”

“I never said anything about working for the police,” and now the stranger has Shaw’s full attention, not to mention guard.

“Oh sorry,” she shrugs. “He gets mail with NYPD human resources as a return address. Guess I just assumed.”

The sheepish look is enough to assuage some of Shaw’s paranoia but not enough to quell any of the annoyance. “I think it would be wise if you just stuck to delivering the mail, and minded your own business-“ She glances at the woman’s name tag “…Root,” putting emphasis on the T as to get her point across.

“Oh, I assure you, we at the United States Postal Service hold our patron’s privacy in the highest regard, but I’ll keep that in mind… S. Shaw.” The woman grins and adds what to Shaw was probably intended to be a suggestive wink (though it’s more of a side-face scrunched mess). “…Though I’m not opposed to getting to know patrons on a more personal level, too,” She adds and before Shaw can comment back, the woman is already almost down the stairs and off to the next house with a bounce in her step that is entirely too self-satisfied.

 

*_*_*_*_*


	3. Chapter 3

*_*_*_*_*

 

“Hi Sweetie.”

Shaw bristles at the nickname. “Don’t call me that.” She’s been staying at Finch’s for not even a week now, but this marks their fourth interaction so far and Shaw sincerely hopes it’s an anomaly and not the beginning of a pattern.

“Oh I’m sorry, Detective,” Root oozes, and before she can even stop herself Shaw’s face snaps up from the clipboard to glare back in response.

“Okay, confession time, I did a little digging…” Root continues, and Shaw wonders idly if the taller woman really thinks anyone could swallow that faux sincere look, especially as it so effortlessly slides into the considerably less chaste one she’s giving Shaw now. “… and I have to say, I’m impressed.”

Shaw shoves the clipboard back at Root, hoping that if outright rudeness won’t shoo the woman away, maybe pure silence will.

“I found a fun article from the Times last year…”

Shaw glares back, silently.

“…Did you really disarm three terrorists on the C line?”

Shaw continues to stare, praying the woman will just give up, hand her the package, and be on her way.

“Pretty impressive for one person, is all I’m saying…”

Maybe if she holds her hand out for the package long enough, this idiot will eventually give it to her.

“And three against one, makes sense that you were shot. Not that it stopped you from- what did the article say?- ‘Despite her wounds, the officer still managed to neutralize two of the threats before heroically tackling the last remaining gunman to the ground’…”

At that Shaw can’t stop the scoff from slipping out. Reality is hardly ever as poetic as reporters make it sound. She’d shot two of them in the kneecaps but the third guy had gotten the jump on her. She only tackled him because he’d smacked the gun out of her hand. Shaw remembers being pissed (at herself, as much as him) for letting him get the jump on her and in reality the ‘heroic tackling’ was her losing her temper a bit. “Don’t believe everything you read”.

Root smiles brightly, apparently cheered by finally eliciting a response from the detective. “Well, that’s why I’m asking. I like to get my information right from the source.”

Shaw frowns, hand still outstretched and waiting.

“So what’s it like… being shot?” Root says, voice dropping to an octave and tone more conducive to a ‘What are you wearing’ line of questioning than the current topic.

“It hurts, you get used to it, who cares- Can you just give me the package already?”

“No need to be rude. It is customary, after all, to ask questions and engage in small talk when getting to know one another better.”

“What makes you think I’d have any interest in getting to know you,” Shaw growls lowly, and if it weren’t for the cast, she’s not sure she wouldn’t have punted Root down the stairs by now.

For her part, Root just smiles brightly again and finally hands over the package before turning to leave without another word. Shaw watches her go a moment too long, unable to stop her brain from focusing on the woman a second more than she has to, wondering what exactly it is about Root that seems to make her so riled up. She settles on the fact that it must be the extra tension she’s been carrying around because of the damn cast before going back inside to sit down.

 

*_*_*_*_*

 

The days so far seem to be creeping by tortuously slow. Besides Fusco, the obnoxious postal employee, and Bear, there’s been little else to occupy her. Today, Shaw’s read two magazines and watched three hours of PBS and honestly the only thing that’s gotten her through the day is the knowledge that Fusco will be here any moment with her favorite Chinese takeout.

Impatient, Shaw crutches to the front bay window to see if she can spot him. When she moves the curtains aside though, she finds something else entirely.

She’s not sure if it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy or simply one of those odd twists of fate that a man named Finch would be into birdwatching. Despite him being gone for only a week thus far, the notebook, binoculars and well-thumbed copy of Audubon Society’s Field Guide to North American Birds resting on the window sill have very little dust on them, suggesting that he uses them and the space often.

Shaw is skeptical, as she stares out the window into the rapidly darkening sky, as to how entertaining or varied the avian population is here in the city, but she’s not about to go through Finch’s birdwatching notebook to know for sure.

She does, however, leaf through the guide book. The text looks to be at least 30 years old and several bird species from around the continent have been dog-eared. Shaw idly wonders if it’s a wish list, or a list of favorites, or maybe just things he’d like to learn more about. She abandons the text and that train of thought quickly though, in favor of checking out the binoculars instead.

Peering through, she browses the street. In the darkness, her eyes are naturally drawn to the lit windows in the apartment building across the way. While some have their shades drawn, most don’t. Shaw doesn’t feel particularly bad because she figures if they’re going to leave them open they’d have to know they’re risking someone looking in, right?

It seems each pair of windows corresponds to one apartment-one for the bathroom and one for what looks like a living room. Her theory is confirmed as she watches a man brushing his teeth on the fourth floor, walk out of the bathroom and appear in the next window. She watches through that second window, as he stares at what she hopes is a TV for a minute or two, still brushing, before returning to the bathroom to spit and rinse.

Thoroughly disgusted, Shaw moves on. The entire third floor has their shades pulled down and while the 2nd floor has them open, it looks like no one’s home. Below, someone walking out of the building’s front lobby catches her eye. When she looks closer she has to do a double take because exiting the building across the street, in what appears to be a very formfitting and short dress, is Finch’s annoying postal carrier, Root.

“What the fuck?” Shaw wonders out loud, pressing her eyes harder into the binocular lenses, as though it will grant her a closer look. She watches as the woman pauses on the sidewalk to smooth her dress for a moment, and Shaw’s mind whirs wondering what the hell the mailwoman is doing in the building across the street, and without the uniform she’s kind of also wondering how someone’s legs can be that long and-

Her concentration is broken by a loud rapping on the window pane next to her. She lowers the binoculars quickly and is greeted with her partner Fusco’s self-satisfied smirk staring at her from the other side.

“Shit,” Shaw mumbles, chastising herself for not only letting him sneak up on her, but catching her doing... well, whatever she was doing. She ditches the binoculars and quickly moves to answer the door.

Fusco’s smirk is even more obnoxious without the double pained glass buffering it and she braces for the endless ribbing she’s likely to receive from him.

“Hey, Harriet the Spy, you know when I see a 10-25 I gotta report it right?” He grins, letting himself in and making his way to the breakfast bar.

Shaw grits her teeth and follows. “Not spying. Turns out Finch is into bird watching. I was just checking out his hardware.”

“That’s funny,” Fusco continues, as he unloads the Chinese takeout he’s brought. “The last guy I arrested for being a peeper said he was just ‘checking out someone’s hardware’ too…”

“Ha, ha,” Shaw fake laughs, grabbing the nearest container.

“Look, what you do on your own time to get off is your business. All I’m sayin’ is if you get stir crazy in here and go all L.B. Jefferies thinking you’ve seen a crime or something through those binoculars, you better call Wonder Boy Reese, ‘cause I’m not getting involved in that shit.” He fastens the leash to Bear, who’s already at his side ready and waiting for his walk.

“You are not going to tell Reese about this,” Shaw warns through a mouth full of Kung Pao.

“No promises.” He drops before closing the door behind him.

Shaw sighs into her container. She knows Fusco well enough that he’s not going to go back and tell Reese tomorrow… He’s going to wait until she gets back to work so he can tell Reese (and probably Carter and anyone else within earshot) right in front of her, just to make Shaw witness their reaction in person.

That’s what Shaw would do. And he knows it.

She smirks before popping another piece of chicken in her mouth. Yeah, Fusco's a good partner. She guesses.

 

*

 

Shaw’s Kung Pao chicken was long finished by the time midnight rolls around, but she’s starting to wish she’d left some to snack on. In the past, she’s always been diligent about bringing snacks to her stakeouts and while she’d rather not admit it, that’s what she was currently doing- staking out the apartment building across the street in case Root comes back.

Fusco’s warning from earlier floats back into her consciousness, but she stamps it out quickly because he has no idea what he’s talking about. This is what good detectives do- they trust their gut, they follow a hunch- and from the very first moment Root showed up on the door step, Shaw’s gut has been telling her something is off with this woman. Her gut’s been communicating that physically too, always knotting up around the woman. Root’s too intrusive, asks too many questions, and the absolutely blatant innuendos and flirting all raise warning flags for the detective.

Also, the fact that Root is one of the only people she’s ever met that seems completely un-phased by her surliness is bizarre and absolutely unnerving. That’s why ever since Fusco left for the evening, Shaw’s been camped out at the window, watching from the shadows and waiting to see if Root returns. If she does, and if by some wild chance actually lives in that building, then Shaw will be more than happy to let the whole thing go. If she doesn’t live there… well something is definitely off then.

So far, there’s been surprisingly little activity, just residents leaving and returning, going about their business. The sketchiest thing so far is the slim, blonde haired man from the 4th floor that came down about 15 minutes ago for a smoke. He’s been camped out on the concrete steps in front of the building, leering lecherously at every woman that walks by. While repugnant, the behavior is hardly suspect.

Shaw’s eyelids are beginning to droop and she actually considers abandoning her post, when her mark finally comes into view. Shaw grabs the binoculars and trains them on the postal woman as she approaches the building.

Root is still wearing the black dress, though her hair isn’t quite as well coifed as it was hours earlier. As she approaches the steps, Thin Man from 4th floor jumps up and hustles to the building to hold the door open for her.

She turns and says something (probably ‘thank you’), and Shaw watches as she is unfortunately rewarded by the Thin Man squeezing her ass as she walks past him and into the building. Shaw’s not sure if Root said anything or just ignored it as her head just slightly cocks to the side so she can glace back at him, but from the sleazy smirk on Thin Man's face as he returns to the steps and lights another cigarette, it seems as though at least he feels it was worth it.

Shaw abandons him, and instead watches as Root enters the 2nd floor apartment. While many would think of this as enough proof that the woman actually resides there, Shaw isn’t sold.

She observes Root deposit her purse on the living room coffee table and kick off her shoes. Still inconclusive.

However when Root unzips her dress and lets it falls to the floor, padding to the bathroom in just her black lace underwear, Shaw deems it enough proof to rationalize that the taller woman might actually live there.

What Shaw can’t quite rationalize is the four extra minutes she spends watching Root, standing in her underwear, preparing for bed. Shaw watches as Root washes her face, brushes her teeth, and combs her hair. She knows it isn’t right, but she just can’t seem to look away. She’d like to say it’s just the mystery about the woman that’s intriguing her but it’s hard to deny the obvious- Root’s incredibly attractive. Out of that hideous uniform that is.

Objectively speaking, of course.

When Root turns her back to the bathroom window and moves to unclasp her bra, Shaw drops the binoculars and quickly closes the curtains the remainder of the way, cutting off the view completely. Watching any further would definitely be crossing a line.

Like full on Peeping Tom.

Shaw shakes her head, as if the motion will knock some sense back into her, and quickly gets up to start her own sleep time routine. She takes a swig of Pepto Bismol right from the bottle too, because despite “solving” the mystery, there’s still something that causes her stomach to twist at the thought of Root.

She’s hoping it’s just the Lo Mein.

 

*_*_*_*_*

 

The weather for the rest of the weekend is crappy, to say the least, so when it finally breaks on Monday Shaw is quick to take the opportunity for she and Bear to get in a proper walk. It’s cold but sunny- a good day over all- but Shaw’s mood quickly clouds over when, upon returning to Finch’s building, they find Root already there sitting on the stoop with a package. “You told me not to leave them out front, so I thought I’d wait to see if you’d be back soon.”

Bear all but pulls the leash out of Shaw’s hand at the sight of the postal employee, trying to greet her. Shaw holds him back firmly but the dog’s tail is wagging so hard against Shaw’s good leg that she wonders if it might bruise.

“Careful- he’s retired K9 unit,” Shaw warns her. She’s seen people mess with service dogs in the past with disastrous results, but as Root stands up and approaches, Bear is looking anything but guarded or apprehensive. She crouches down and he happily licks Root’s hand (and then face) as if they were old friends and Shaw’s once again wondering what kind of spell it is that Root seems to cast wherever she goes.

“I think he likes me,” Root says, as Bear leans into the scratching she’s giving him.

“I thought mail carriers were supposed to be afraid of dogs,” Shaw grumbles. Bear, satisfied with the attention, returns to Shaw’s side and the detective holds him extra tight to her, just in case he gets it in his head to return to the other woman.

Root stands once again and shrugs. “I guess I’m not a typical mail carrier.”

Shaw thinks that’s the understatement of the century as she moves past her, collecting the package on the way. She has to pause to find the right key for the door though, and it’s enough for Root to catch up to her.

The taller woman leans a shoulder against the front of the house, turned so she’s facing Shaw and way closer than necessary. “Admit it Detective, you missed me over the weekend…”

“Yeah, I missed you like I’d miss an intestinal parasite,” Shaw says, finally selecting the right key and opening the door.

“Love the simile. But you know, Intestinal parasites are often transferred through skin absorption... Is that your way of offering-”

The door’s slam cuts the woman off because Shaw has zero interest in how that sentence was going to end. She punches in the alarm’s disable code before glaring down accusingly at Bear. The dog has little to say in reply, simply panting and smiling back up at her. Feeling betrayed she huffs a quick “Traitor,” down at the dog, before heading over to deposit the package amongst the steadily growing pile.

 

 

*_*_*_*_*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, this chapter contains brief references to Knifeplay. It's towards the end of the chapter and I'll add warnings similar to this as more things come up. Enjoy :)

*_*_*_*_*

  

“Got a big one here, _are you sure you can take it_?”

To Root’s credit, she is indeed standing next to a very large box. At least she has the right props to go with today’s double entendre, and Shaw can’t seem to help the corner of her mouth shift into a half smirk at how undeniably cheesy it is. “Flirting with all your patrons is going to get you fired eventually…” Shaw replies lowly, signing the slip and handing it back.

“I don’t flirt with all my patrons,” Root says, tucking the clipboard back into her bag. “Just one.” She takes care to stare pointedly back at Shaw.

On the surface, Shaw stares impassively back, but inside something stirs in her gut. Root has a way of making her blood boil and her stomach clench and while Shaw is careful to never betray it on the surface, somehow Root must know because the woman hasn’t let up yet. “Yeah, I’m sure. Are you going to hand it over or what?”

Root chuckles, looking from Shaw, to the three foot tall box at her feet, and then back again. “You’re not serious, right?”

“I’m always serious. Give me the box.”

“There is no way for you to carry this with your crutches. Why don’t I just bring it in for you?”

“I’m not letting you in here” Shaw scoffs.

“I’m serious, you’re going to hurt yourself. Just show me where you want it placed and I can come in and-“

“What's with your poor listening skills? I said _no_. Now just hand it to me.”

“Fine. You're the boss,” Root shrugs and leans down, scooping the box up before placing it in Shaw’s hands.

As soon as Shaw grabs it, she immediately knows it’s a mistake. It’s not only large and cumbersome, but the package is also just plain heavy. She has to lean on the door frame to steady herself, and in doing so the crutch under her left arm falls, almost causing her to drop the whole thing.

She takes a moment to try and shift, adjust, but it’s just too much. Shaw struggles on for an extra minute though, before finally giving in. She can’t see around the package in her arms, but she can still sense Root’s presence on the other side. She sighs, and braces her ego for impact before finally saying quietly, “Can I get a hand here?”

“What was that? It’s hard to hear with the box in the way.” Root chirps and Shaw can hear the grin that’s surely plastered on her face.

“I said _, ‘Can I get a hand here?_ ’” Shaw growls louder.

There’s a pause and, for a moment, Shaw thinks that Root may have actually left. When warm fingers brush lightly over Shaw’s arms before taking the package, she’s almost shocked enough to drop it. The contact makes the hair stand up on the back of her neck and that usual stomach clench feels like it just bottoms out entirely instead. Shaw bends to scoop up the dropped crutch and clears her throat before moving further into the apartment. “Uh, over here,” she says, making her way towards the dining room table, purposefully avoiding looking back at Root. “You can just put it down there.”

Root places the box down dutifully before standing again. She looks as relaxed as Shaw is tense and with the package deposited, the postal employee leans on the arm of the sofa and casually takes in the apartment, “Wow. Nice place.”

“Yeah, it’s great.” Shaw is gesturing now as if to usher Root out, which goes thoroughly ignored. “Thanks and all but-“

“-and very well decorated,” Root says, before spotting the several empty take-out containers littering the coffee table. “With a few exceptions, clearly. You know, Sameen,” she says turning to look at Shaw once more. “If you’re having trouble managing with your leg and all, I’d be more than happy to come over and help. I live right across the street actually.”

 _Yeah I know_ , Shaw thinks and while Root’s offer appears to be thoughtful and kind, the fact that it’s coming from Root leads her to believe it’s less than altruistic. “I manage fine.”

“Suit yourself,” Root shrugs, and continues her visual survey of the place. “Oo, look at that…” she says, already making her way to one of bookcases leaving Shaw no choice but to hobble after her.

The taller woman plucks one of the older looking books off the shelf and begins thumbing through it. “Do you know what this is?” She asks excitedly, as Shaw finally joins by her side. “It’s a 1st Edition copy of Wiener’s _Human Use of Human Beings,”_ she gapes, and Shaw thinks Root might as well be holding a baby the way she’s cradling the book.

“Fascinating,” Shaw says flatly. “But you need to go.”

“You’re no fun,” Root pouts, closing the book carefully before returning it to the shelf. She makes her way towards the door, Shaw following closely behind in hopes of blocking any further detours the taller woman may have.

Luckily Root only makes one more stop. Unluckily, it’s near the window just before the door. “Doing a little freelance work, Detective?”

Shaw steps around her and follows Root’s gaze to the binoculars. “Not mine. Finch does some birdwatching.”

“Really? Well I don’t blame him. There are plenty of fascinating things to see in this area, especially at night. Maybe even right across the street. But don’t take my word for it, you should see for yourself.”

“You think I should have a hobby? No thanks,” Shaw ignores the bait and opens the front door, motioning again for Root to leave.

“Suit yourself,” she says stepping out. “My offer stills stands though. If you need anything” she leans in, close enough that Shaw can feel her breath on her face, “I’m right across the street.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Shaw replies evenly, resisting the urge to retreat even an inch.

“Please do. Have a good evening, Detective.”

 

*

 

“Finch, I’m absolutely not doing that. I told you, he’s fine. I’m not sure what else you want me to say?”

“Please _,_ Ms. Shaw,” and Shaw can just picture him pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, much the way he does every time Fusco spills coffee on his keyboard at work. “Please, just put him on the phone.”

“Fine,” she sighs and rolls her eyes before holding the phone up to the dog’s ear.

She has to admit, it is endearing the way Bear tilts his head to the sound of his master’s voice, but it’s not quite cute enough for Shaw to dismiss the ridiculousness of the gesture. She waits another 30 seconds before returning the phone to her own ear.

“Satisfied?”

“Yes, thank you. Now is there anything else I should know? Have you been receiving the packages?”

“Oh I’ve got them alright,” Shaw intones, moving from her seated position on the couch to a more prone one. “I’ve also gotten my fill of your Postal girl.”

“Oh? I can’t say I’ve paid much attention to the person delivering.”

“Yeah, well, trust me you’re better off. She’s…” A hundred words come to Shaw’s mind actually. Rude, intrusive, yeah hot but also annoying, overly flirtatious, generally disconcerting, weird, far taller than necessary, smug, and okay sort of amusing, arrogant, “…odd.”

“Hm.”

Finch’s noncommittal hum seems to remind Shaw that she’s dangerously encroaching upon territory that would be considered ‘small talk’, so she immediately corrects it. “Anyway, if anything actually important comes up, I’ll let you know.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Detective.”

Shaw hangs up and tosses her phone on the adjacent coffee table a bit harder than she’d intended, causing it to clang loudly across the glass - just barely missing colliding with that fucking vase again - before skittering off the other edge onto the floor. She leaves the phone there, instead grabbing the TV remote, ready for some distraction.

The enormous TV springs to life in the middle of what looks like yet another reality TV fight. Both women on scene hurl bleeped out expletives into each other’s faces before show security separates them and the minute or so it’s on is enough to raise Shaw’s blood pressure. She flips quickly to the nature channel where a different pair of females fight over a gazelle carcass that one of the pride has killed. The narrator’s impersonal commentary, while preferable to the harsh censor bleeping, is annoying in its own way.

She punches the power button with fervor and stares at the ceiling for a moment calculating her next move.

Finch’s extensive book collection is meticulously organized by Dewey Decimal standards making it quite obvious the content is heavily weighted towards science and technology. Still, she remembered a small section of fiction in the “800’s” almost near the kitchen, and that’s where Shaw heads for her next distraction.

The section is small and the part that consists of things in a language she can actually read is even smaller. It’s mostly classics, mostly first edition collector’s items, but near the far right is one clearly contemporary looking item (colorful dust jacket gleaming amongst the full and faded leather around it). Shaw plucks it off the shelf and returns to the couch to settle in.

 

*

 

Two hours into her book, Shaw slams it shut and tosses it onto the coffee table where it skitters across the surface (she has to remember to move that goddamn vase!) before falling off the other edge, taking almost the exact same path as her cellphone did hours earlier. She sighs in disgust because she wants to punch about ten characters, especially every member of the Dursley family, squarely in the face. Though honestly, she can definitely relate to Ron and his love of food, and that girl Hermoine seems like she’s got her shit together.

She reasons even with the irritation the book so far is holding her attention quite well, and with seven books in the series it will make for a good distraction. Still, all the talk of magic and murder has her hungry so she makes her one-legged way to the kitchen, grabbing the leftover sandwich from her earlier dinner (Lionel had done well for once, bringing her two sandwiches this evening, instead of just one).

The pastrami was considerably better when it was hot, but still delicious. She begins to make her way towards the couch, but almost like a weird gravitational pull, somehow ends up at the chair near the window. Cognizant of getting caught doing exactly what Root was implying when she noticed the binoculars, Shaw makes sure to stay far enough back from the window, in her own darkened room, to avoid being seen.

As she munches on the chewy cured beef, she surveys the scene. The man from the 4th floor is on the front steps across the street again, enjoying another cigarette. Shaw makes sure to check out every window in the building, on each floor, before allowing herself to check Root’s. The blinds of the 2nd story apartment are still open and the lights are on but no one appears to be inside.

Shaw turns to check the clock in the kitchen - 11:50 pm - and when she turns back, like magic, Root is walking up the sidewalk, just coming into view. Only this time she’s not alone.

Root’s with another woman; a blonde who appears to be, for lack of a better word, mauling her companion. For her part Root seems to be tolerating the affection more than enjoying it, but maybe that’s just because they’re on a public street. The pair turn to head up the stairs and once again Thin Man from the 4th floor hops up from his post to let them in (this time minus the ass grope).

Shaw follows the two women’s progress through the second story windows of what she now knows is Root’s apartment. Both inside, Root gestures towards something Shaw can’t see, and the blonde heads in that direction. Shaw watches as Root busies herself removing a leather case from a drawer in the buffet table, laying the item on the flat surface, and opening the flap to reveal what looks like as set of chef’s knives.

Shaw feels her brow furrow, trying to work out what exactly is happening and where this is going, but all she can really settle on is that it’s definitely suspicious. She glances towards the floor in front of the TV where her phone (and the book she tossed earlier) are still laying and seriously contemplates retrieving it. She doesn’t care if Fusco razzes her for the next month, if she’s about to witness something shady, she’s going to call it in.

The internal debate continues but in the end she can’t seem to pull herself away from the window, especially when she looks again to find the blonde woman walking back into view, though now she’s only clad in undergarments that show far more than they cover. The knives are still clearly in view and Shaw’s wondering exactly how stupid this lady has to be not to find that a bit strange. Stranger still, she hands Root what looks like a piece of cloth, which Root ties around the blonde’s eyes like a blindfold, and-

-Oh.

OH.

Shaw watches as Root abandons her guest for a moment and saunters to the window, leaning on the sill. She looks out and down and _right at_ the window where Shaw is stationed.

Shaw pushes back a few inches, obscuring herself further into the shadows. She’s sure Root can’t see her, it’s not possible, but Root still looks like she’s staring right AT Shaw. Root smiles at the darkness before closing the blinds and now Shaw’s really, really glad she didn’t call anything in to the station. She absolutely would have never heard the end of it.

She glances back at the clock once more, five past midnight now, and is suddenly super ready to be done with the day. She deposits the binoculars in their appointed spot and is pissed at how close she was to proving Fusco right. Jumping to conclusions and butting into other people’s lives - even minimally - is so out of character for her, which begs the question as to why it’s happening at all.

Probably just cabin fever is the consensus, though even as she agrees with that conclusion she can sense the lie. Yes, cabin fever is why she’s throwing herself into it, but there’s also something about Root that is definitely… intriguing.

She scoops up her phone and, even though it’s past midnight, shoots a quick text to Joss about maybe meeting her and the boys for drinks over the weekend.

Out of the house = reprieve from cabin fever = distraction from visualizing whatever is currently taking place in the apartment across the street, and also from wondering what other recreational activities Finch’s neighbor has up her sleeve.

 

*_*_*_*_*


	5. Chapter 5

*_*_*_*_*

 

Shaw wakes the next morning and enjoys a blissful 10 seconds of Rootless existence before what she witnessed the night before comes flooding back. Root coming to the window, staring purposefully in her direction before probably returning to stand in front of her guest, knife glistening in her hand and a look on her face that was probably nothing short of gluttonous… not unlike the looks that Shaw herself has received on Finch’s front steps several times now. Minus the knife of course.

Even though Root would never know for sure, Shaw is not only pissed that Root was right that she had been using the binoculars to peep across the way, but that she couldn’t resist doing it again. The whole display of hers was clearly for Shaw's benefit, but to what end? Did Root really think that would be a selling point? Shaw’s no stranger to power plays in the bedroom, though it’s usually her that’s in charge. Not because of preference, but simply put it’s hard to find someone competent enough to know what the hell they’re doing when the roles are reversed. She absolutely wouldn’t be opposed to it of course- if the person is capable. You know, if they really knew what they were doing and if it wasn’t just some random person like Root (who clearly puts the ‘strange’ in stranger). Yeah, she thinks. Definitely _not_ Root, but someone just _like_ Root maybe... yeah. Exactly _like_ Root. But not Root. Sure, that makes sense.

Shaw’s brain unwittingly makes its way back to the way Root held that knife though…

…and quickly dismisses it, literally shaking her head and opting instead to swing her legs out of bed. She grabs her crutches and makes her way to the kitchen for coffee, hoping the strong, acrid flavor will tamp out the last of that train of thought.

Bear whines by the door and Shaw detours there to let him out. She knows it’s not the most responsible dog owner move, to just let him out to do his business wherever and come back, but she’s moving slowly this morning. She’s sore and tired from staying up late staking out Root and hates that it’s just one more way the woman is effecting her day to day operations.

Blessedly, the Belgian Malinois is quick about his business and Shaw makes a silent promise to get her shit together (no pun intended) every morning moving forward. She’s not about to break down and call ‘Nancy the dog walker’ any time soon, that’s for sure.

She returns to the kitchen to tend to her coffee. Shaw’s not “high maintenance” by any stretch, she often can (and even chooses) to go without a lot of creature comforts, but coffee is not one of them.

Shaw was mystified when she first arrived at Finch’s. She’d seen him around the precinct carrying a hot thermos, and considering the apartment’s level of refined opulence she’d assumed he’d have some sort of fancy espresso machine. No such luck. In fact, there wasn’t anything at all for coffee, no Keurig, no coffee pot, not even a French press. Eventually, in her rummaging she stumbled upon a drawer with about 30 different types of tea, answering the question as to what Finch was drinking all the time. Not about to go without, that first day she found one of several mesh tea diffusers, filled it with ground coffee (she’d brought a small amount just in case) and poured boiling water over it, hanging it on the edge of her cup to let it steep. Sometimes coffee requires desperate measures.

The next day she quickly remedied that situation, making sure to add a French Press to her online grocery store order, along with enough coffee to hopefully get her through the coming weeks. And that’s what she’s drinking currently, as she pours herself a cup and slides it across the kitchen island to the breakfast bar. She makes her way around, takes a seat, and lifts the cup, inhaling deeply.

Most people would relish the time off, but it’s driving Shaw mad. She hates this, the void left by inaction, and even though she knows it’s not, it still feels lazy and selfish. As a rule, Shaw doesn’t allow herself to indulge in much of anything. Not that she’s really prone to doing so anyway, but those kinds of things are so superfluous- so unnecessary- so why spend money or time on them? So, other than coffee, there’s not much that Shaw does indulge in.

Well, coffee and food. But that’s it…

-Oh, and guns. You have to have a good gun. Or 20. But that’s it for indulgences…

…Except for sex. When she wants sex, she gets it. Shaw’s never been one to couple off and has always preferred the ease of a one (three tops) night stand over the mess of a relationship.

So, other than food, guns, coffee, and sex… and as she lists it off to herself she realizes just how much of her time and money _is_ taken up by these things.

So… maybe she is one to indulge, just in her own way.

Like most new self-realizations it leaves her feeling off kilter, which is not where she prefers to be. Given this, when the doorbell rings - likely promising Root, who seems to push her off balance even on Shaw’s more steadfast days (and is probably waiting to slyly pry any ounce of information out of Shaw that would suggest she was in fact ‘birdwatching’ last night) - Shaw makes sure to answer the door with a defensive snarl of “WHAT” already on her lips, ready to repel her right off the bat before anything of the sort could happen.

Unfortunately, the bearded, octogenarian postal carrier on the other side was most definitely not Root. He _is_ startled enough to almost drop the package he’s holding though.

“I’m so sorry,” Shaw says. “I thought you were… where’s Root?”

“Who?” The mailman asks, color finally returning to his cheeks.

“Root. You know, tall, brown hair, super annoying, usually delivers packages here…”

“Sorry, don’t know her. Maybe she works the other shift? I just do Saturdays,” he shrugs, handing Shaw the package.

“Oh. Well, uh, sorry again.”

He nods and makes his way hastily down the steps on to the next house. Shaw takes the package inside, marveling at how Root can throw her further off balance even in her absence.

 

*_*_*_*_*

 

The remainder of the weekend is so stiflingly quiet that (while Shaw would never freely admit it) when Monday rolls around she’s almost glad to see Root, because it’s at least a break in the monotony. She even has to suppress a slight smirk of amusement as they move through their daily verbal sparring.

Cabin fever makes you do strange things, she supposes.

Root finishes up what the woman probably considers to be a playfully witty sign-off and what happens next feels like slow motion. Root’s heal catches on a jagged edge on the next-to-last step, sending her forward in sideways type lunge. She reaches out, probably to grasp at the wrought iron fence to catch herself, but ends up missing and slicing her arm badly on the spiked top of the bar. The rest of her lands hard on the sidewalk in an awkward jumble of arms and legs, thankfully cushioned somewhat by the mail bag. All of it is so clunky there is absolutely no way the fall could have been staged.

Shaw stands on the stoop, mouth slightly ajar in a grimace, as Root slowly rearranges her limbs and stands. When the postal carrier turns to face the house again, she’s staring strangely at her now freely bleeding arm.

The sight of the blood kickstarts Shaw into doctor mode and she’s quick to usher Root inside. “Shit- get in here, let me take care of that.”

She expects Root to follow, but she doesn’t. The postal employee seems stalled, mumbling a quiet, “No, it’s fine, I can just-“

“Root, just get in here. Now.” Shaw’s command seems to work as Root finally heads up the stairs, depositing her postal bag by the door before following Shaw to the kitchen.

At the sink, Shaw takes Root’s arm, pulling it under the faucet to rinse it off and assess. Shaw ignores the slight intake of breath from Root as the cool water hits the cut (though unconsciously files the sounds away for later) and lets medical mode take over.

“Wash it out and hold this rag on it while I find the first aid kit.”

Shaw hobbles as best she can to the master bath, figuring it’s the most logical place to find a first aid kit. She bends awkwardly to search through the cabinet under the sink and thanks the high heavens that Harold is so revoltingly predictable in his organization when she finds what she’s looking for.

Returning to the kitchen, Shaw removes Root’s hand from where it was placing pressure over the gash, replacing it with her own. She then leads Root silently over to the breakfast bar, seating them both so she can take a closer look.

She holds Root’s forearm, moving it gingerly to the counter and is struck by how thin and light it is. Not frail though, by any measure. Shaw can feel the strong tendons flex under the fingers where she’s still holding Root, and is reminded of the strength and ease with which Root held a knife just a few evenings ago.

Shaw pulls away from that train of thought and moves on, letting herself be carried back to the task by the swift current of years of medical experience. She leans closer to examine it, palpating around the edge a bit before rendering her diagnosis. “It’s deep, but it won’t need stitches.”

“Good,” Root breathes quickly, though still appears slightly nervous. “I should go, then.”

Root makes a move to go, but Shaw tightens her grip, holding Root’s forearm where it is and keeping her in her seat. “Let me dress it at least,” Shaw says, meeting Root’s eyes. There, the detective finds more hesitation and uncertainty than she has ever seen on Root’s face before. Shaw watches as the taller woman internally debates… something, she’s not really sure. From what she’d seen, being uneasy at the sight of blood doesn’t add up, so that can’t be it. Root bites her lip, hesitating before making her decision. She nods, consenting, and slowly eases back into her seat once more.

Shaw sets to work, opening the first aid kit and assessing what’s available. She finds an antibiotic gel, gauze and some self-adherent wrap.

She leans in close, taking the gel and applying a good amount to the cut (again, purposefully tuning out the distracting little hiss Root makes, and the accompanying swoop her own stomach at the sound, before spreading the gel gently with her finger.)

“I feel so silly for hurting myself like that,” Root grumbles from above.

“Yeah well, I can’t exactly talk, can I,” Shaw says, nodding at her own plaster cast before returning attention to the task at hand.

“Is that how you hurt your leg?” Root asks, as Shaw finishes up the gel and begins applying the gauze.

“Yeah, but not exactly an accidental fall. My partner and I were pursuing this perp down a fire escape.” Shaw takes the adhesive wrap and starts at Root’s wrist, holding her hand gently in her own while the other slowly wraps the roll around and up Root’s arm. “Perp was just about to the ground and we were still a flight up. I knew if the guy got to the street with that much of a head start, it’d be really hard to catch him, but my partner was in front of me, blocking the whole staircase. I couldn’t go around him so I just… decided to jump off the 1st story and land on the perp below.” Shaw sighs at the memory, as she wraps the bandage over the last of the gauze. “Anyway, yeah, that’s how I fractured it.”

She tucks in the tail of the gauze and strokes her hand over the top, assessing her work. No bumps, it’s applied smoothly and evenly. Shaw smirks, _still got it_.

“You look like you’ve done this before,” Root says, and Shaw finally turns her attention from her work, returning it to the postal carrier.

“I did a few years in med school before I went into the Marines,” Shaw shrugs. It’s not modesty that keeps her from adding more detail, she knows she is incredibly skilled. It’s the getting kicked out in her 3rd year of residency for an Axis II Personality Disorder that keeps her quiet on the subject usually.

“Well you’re very skilled.” Root smiles warmly and the genuineness of the comment has the detective buzzing like a shot of whiskey.

Something below seems to catch Root’s eye and Shaw follows the gaze down to her own hands, one encircling Root’s wrist and the other still resting on her bandaged forearm, thumb idly stroking back and forth.

Now aware, Shaw stills her hand and her eyes dart back up to Root’s. For her part, Root’s face looks like someone trying to figure something out. A struggle over something wages behind her eyes a moment longer before she blinks it away, sliding her arm out from underneath Shaw’s palm. “I should go.”

Shaw lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Yeah, I should get back to…” She trails off because they both know she has nothing to go back to.

Root nods again, as if affirming her choice, then makes her way quickly towards the door. Reaching the door, Root pauses as if to say something but quickly dismisses it, instead gathering up her mailbag before opening door and heading out.

“Root?”

The postal carrier stops in her tracks, turning, and truly looks like she’s not sure what to expect. “Yes?”

“Keep it dry. Change the dressing every 72 hours.”

“Will do, doc.” Root grins slowly, readjusting her postal bag before heading out to her next stop.

 

 

*_*_*_*_*

 

The beginning of the week slips by as unremarkably as the weekend did, which only seems to highlight her own lack of productivity. And the fact that she hasn’t seen Root since Monday is probably for the best, but Root’s nonetheless still hovering in the forefront of Shaw’s mind somehow. She’s tired of TV and movies and, to make matters worse, Cedric Diggory's been murdered and Lord Voldemort is back (she’s finished through book four already and needs to give her eyes a break).

Maybe she’ll start in with book five early tomorrow morning, she’s really liking that Hermione girl and without her the others would most definitely be royally fucked. For now though, Shaw is officially bored and it’s for this reason that she rationalizes her return to the front window to keep an eye out (definitely not snooping). Giving herself over to the activity completely, she’s even made the bag of popcorn she’d discovered at the back of Finch’s cupboard earlier in the week.

She checks her watch, and right on what seems to be schedule (just before midnight) Root appears, sauntering up the sidewalk. Also on par with routine, the Thin Man from the 4th floor is sitting at his post on the steps, cigarette in hand. Shaw observes them move through the established dance: Thin Man hoping up at the sight of Root, opening the door for her.

This time though, after the Thin Man cops a generous feel of Root’s ass, she pauses, turning to face him. Shaw can’t read lips but whatever Root has said, despite her calm demeanor, must not have been that nice as it’s caused Thin Man’s face to go bright red. Thin man starts yelling something and whatever Root replies appears to make it worse. He balls his fists and takes a step forward.

Before she knows what's happening Shaw finds herself up and at Finch's front door quicker than a person with one leg should move. It's an automatic reaction, instinct, to serve and protect and destroy and all that. She didn’t think about how exactly she was going to help but as it turns out she doesn’t need to. Shaw flings open Finch's door just in time to watch Root calmly intercept Thin Man's attack, tasing him into near unconsciousness.

Shaw’s jaw drops in time with Thin Man’s body. She moves back into the house, quickly shutting the door to avoid detection, and moves back to the window to see what else will unfold. The whole taser move was so polished and smooth Shaw feels the sharp burning ember of admiration (and muddled desire) that she gets when witnessing someone wielding such tactical precision.

Back at her spot at the window, she watches as Root stands smirking over the man's convulsing body. She’s looking at him with a kind of simple but cold fascination, the way a child might watch an ant fry under their magnifying glass.

It doesn’t end there, though. Root kneels down and says something to Thin Man, something to make his eyes go wide, before standing once again and entering the building. The man remains where he dropped on the front steps, still actively quaking from the voltage.

Adrenaline is still coursing through Shaw and it's getting mixed up, tangled, and twisted with all the other things Root seems to incite (anger, frustration, and okay, sure, some attraction) and Shaw's not sure what to do with herself.

One thing is for sure, she’s not going to report anything. Thin Man got what he deserved and will be fine in a few minutes. Shaw would have done the same thing, though she probably would have just punched him (which would've been far not less clean and efficient).

That in particular is one thing she can say of Root, the woman is seemingly efficient in everything she does. She’s frank and forthright about what she wants and seems to make sure she gets it too. Both things Shaw can definitely appreciate since she tends to operate the same way, hence their stalemate. Root flirts, Shaw rebuffs; lather rinse, repeat, both clearly not wavering on what they want from the other. Well, maybe a little waver. Shaw’s still replaying the whole fixing Root’s arm up incident, trying to figure out why Root seemed reluctant to let her help, but mostly trying to understand her own response. Shaw’s not sure how it will end between them, and if she’s being honest with herself she’s not sure how she wants it to.

But no, even thinking about getting involved with Root is a bad idea, because in truth she does know how it will end. It will end with Harold returning home. It will end with Shaw packing up, heading back to her apartment and her job, forgetting all about the mail carrier, and leaving Root with hurt feelings.

But for today, Shaw just ends up staring at the closed shades of Root's apartment. She stares long after Thin Man finally returns to his apartment. She stares until the weird feeling in her gut has quieted. Even then though, thoughts of Root still seem to swirl. They follow her back to bed and only fade when Shaw finally slips into sleep.

 

*_*_*_*_*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, let's pause once again so I can thank you all for reading!!! I am absolutely floored by the kudos and nice comments- I'm so happy people are having a good time reading this! We're about halfway through, so things are going to heat up soon. Stay tuned :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for being late with this update- there will still be two more this week to make up for it :)

*_*_*_*_*

 

The trick to any long con or manipulation is patience and attention to detail. So, despite the stakes being higher than ever before, Root had started this mission much the same way she always does, planning things down to the last possible variable.

She’d spent a full month gaining Harold’s trust posing as ‘Nancy’, the friendly, wholesome and very innocent dog-walker. She knew that when Harold received notice of the mandatory conference she assigned him to, he would have to select someone to watch the house and walk Bear. She also knew he was a bit of a loner and would be seriously lacking in options. The clear choice would be to select someone that had already proven themselves trust worthy and was already familiar with Bear.

When the day had come for Finch to leave on his trip, Root had been buzzing with anticipation and also a touch of anxiety, finding it strange that he had decided to wait until the very last minute to ask ‘Nancy’ if she’d be available to watch the house. Excitement was high though, as she imagined having a full month with free reign of his apartment to complete her mission.

So when she’d brought Bear home from his walk that day and Harold answered the door and proceeded to explain to ‘Nancy’ that her services wouldn’t be necessary for a month, she was more than a bit miffed. As the man whom she’d come to respect, revere, and resent equally had continued on, telling her that his coworker would be house sitting and taking care of Bear in his absence, it was all she could do to reign in her anger and respond with a smile and the requisite ‘have a good trip’. Closing the door behind him, Root was thus stranded on the steps completely deflated and facing the reality of starting from scratch.

Annoyed but undeterred, she’d quickly gone back to the drawing board and a new plan and new cover emerged. Luckily Harold didn’t introduce her to the house sitter/coworker who’d be staying at his place, so by later that morning, Root – the bright-eyed and sassy postal employee – had been assigned to a new route that just happened to cover Harold’s apartment. She’d prepared a bug (audio surveillance) and placed it in a small postal parcel, intending to have it taken in by whatever helper monkey Finch had employed so she could best assess what she’d be up against.

In this new plan Root accounted for many, many variables, but the one she never could have accounted for was Detective Sameen Shaw. 

From the very first grumbled word, she found the grumpy house sitter not only beyond amusing, but incredibly attractive. Even with a giant mouthful of sandwich (or perhaps additionally because of the sandwich), Root couldn’t seem to keep her eyes from sweeping over the woman in front of her before settling on a stunning mouth, watching as an efficient tongue swiped at some errant mustard on a bottom lip. That first day Root decided to keep the exchange short and friendly, not wanting to commit to a strategy without first doing some digging.

Root spent the first couple of days alternating between flirting with Shaw in the daytime and reviewing the audio captured by the bug she planted either at night or through a live feed to an earpiece when she was out of her apartment. When she’d read Shaw’s files, police ones as well as sealed military and medical, the Detective morphed from being simply amusing to downright enthralling.

Root was dubious whether her chosen approach was working, but as she’d left her apartment in a short black dress at the end of that first week with her earpiece in and overheard Shaw’s partner Fusco calling her out for peeping across the street, Root couldn’t help but grin widely. It seemed that strangely, Root just being… well, Root, could very well be enough of a strategy. From there, a plan started solidifying and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t just a little excited to be able to not have to hide completely behind some false identity. Postal carrier Root was still an cover, sure, but it seemed as if she was getting the desired response from Shaw just by letting her real self drive their interactions. And, to be honest, she’d also been having fun ruffling the house sitter’s feathers.

While Shaw presented with a classic case of _the-lady-detective-protests-too-much_ , Root was confident that she would be able to woo her way into Shaw’s trust and desires, and by extension, the apartment. It wouldn’t be the first time Root’s used her body to get what she wants, as just another utility to employ. The old classic cliché “nothing opens doors like a beautiful woman” is a classic for a reason, because it works. However, as the week went by (and despite her advances), that door stayed closed, literally.

What’s curious is that she knows Shaw is, if anything, at least a little bit interested. That same night she’d overheard Shaw being caught peeping by her partner, she’d decided to try a little experiment upon returning home and strip down in front of her apartment windows, just put on a little show while listening in on her earpiece in case she could tell if Shaw happened to be watching. By the time she’d gotten down to her bra and panties and moved to unhook her bra, she’d been disappointed to hear nothing but silence, but concluded that didn’t mean much. It didn’t seem like Shaw was the type of person to be hooting and hollering about a little skin after all. As she laid down for bed though, right before shutting off the audio for the night, she’d been rewarded by catching a mumbled, “…who strips in front of an open window? Ugh. Yeah… I guess she’s hot or whatever, but not as sexy as you big fella,” with some ruffling and subsequent coos, which Root was fairly confident meant she was talking to the dog. Her experiment had paid off, and she’d determined Shaw was at least physically attracted to her, which was a good starting point.

The more she listened the clearer it had become that, despite the gruff exterior and rather stark appropriated ‘diagnosis’, Detective Shaw is a complex, badass, beautiful woman who also happens to be what most would consider a huge nerd.

For example, Root finds it inexplicably endearing the way Shaw talks to Bear pretty much all day. The detective even goes so far as to routinely detail to the big dog what she’ll be having for lunch and dinner each night. She also follows up each treat from her own meal she slips him with a whispered, “Remember, this is our secret, no telling on me.”

Additionally (and much to Root’s surprising unease), Shaw talks to herself often too. Some of it’s hard to understand (the Detective seems to have a tendency to speak rather low in general) but what Root can decipher feels quite… intimate. There are no great revelations or anything like that, it’s mostly a lot of Shaw yelling at the TV, alternating between cheering and growling at the book series she’s reading, and narrating her thoughts to Bear, but the more Root hears the more reticent she feels about listening. She almost feels… guilty?

No, not guilty (that’d be a first) but…something.

What’s worse is that the more time Root spends on this person standing between her and her goal, the more difficult things seem to be becoming, on Root’s end of the operation because she’s starting to feel… confused.

She notices herself turning off the audio recordings before she finishes listening. She rationalizes it’s because that information has become superfluous since she already has the intel she needs. She’d never cared about anyone else’s privacy before, so that must be it.

Clearly Shaw is physically appealing and on top of that shares some of the same proclivities as herself (from the small amount of more personal information she’d managed to uncover from her digging), but it’s the additional something that’s started to tug at Root that’s most troubling. When Root’s hands had brushed Shaw’s as the Detective handed off the oversized package, for example, Root’s system seemed to spike and it was clear Shaw was affected too. The overall trend of the banter has begun to subtly change course as well, losing some of its edge, and gaining a bit of a different intensity. There are signs that Shaw is starting to warm up to her too, and while this is a good sign that she’s on the right track in terms of the mission, she’s also not sure why she’s doubting herself.

Despite the nebulous something between them, the conflict she’s feeling in regard to Shaw will not remain an insurmountable problem for long. Root’s always preferred to reach her goals with the least violence possible (mostly because violence just causes more cleanup work), but as much as she’d hate to mess up such a pretty face, if push comes to shove and her deadline gets too tight, nothing is going to stop her from getting what she wants.

And she has never wanted anything so badly in her entire life.

So she’d decided to shift gears slightly, re-focus on the most direct route to her goal and block out the feelings that had begun to encroach upon and threaten the successful path to her objective, because the fact of the matter was that she had only two more weeks until Harold was back. Root therefore concluded to lean harder on the physical attraction aspect, to be bolder and more overt, to steer away from anything that’s bordering on too real or intimate and do what she does best: put on a fucking show. And that show last Friday night had included a blonde, a set of knives, and an open window.

She had baited Shaw earlier that day, commenting on the binoculars when she had made it inside with that large parcel, knowing there was a good chance she’d maybe tempted Shaw enough into being curious, if even out of sheer boredom. Root wondered if Shaw was watching as she’d sauntered to the window and looked down, right at the bay window across the street shrouded in darkness, before closing the shades. She had been right it seemed, confirming as she’d listened to the few words to Bear that followed, before going into the bedroom to tell the naked woman in her bed to take a hike. Normally she wouldn’t let someone so willing and able go to waste, but there was work to be done.

Root had taken that weekend to work out some of the finer details to come, immersing herself in her work and keeping her mind occupied always brought her back to center, and she’d figured it was just what she needed.

It really was shame though, that she and Shaw had to cross paths this way, and perhaps in some sort of alternate reality, maybe someday they would have been good together.

She feels good as Monday rolls around, focused and undeterred, and yet as she’s ending another exchange with Shaw with what she thinks is a playfully witty sign-off, she unconsciously lets her mind wander. Apparently her feet are wandering distractedly too because her heel catches on the last step, and the next thing she knows she’s tumbling toward the ground.

She’d just spent the weekend chastising herself for feeling like an awkward teenager with a crush, and now she was literally bumbling like one too.

So here Root stands on the sidewalk, arm freely bleeding, with Shaw screaming at her to come inside so she can take care of the arm and… well… all these conclusions are muddling her train of thought about scenarios and desired outcomes and Root’s just sort of frozen. It’s like she’d been trying to run too many programs all at once and got hit with a rainbow pinwheel of doom (not that she’d be caught dead using a Mac, but you get the analogy).

The Detective continues to glare as she says “Root, just get in here. Now.” 

The command pulls at Root and she nods, heading up the stairs. She drops her mailbag by the door and lets the detective drag her to the sink before growling out instructions and heading down the hallway to find a first aid kit. Root knows she should be using the opportunity to gather data but her eyes keep getting drawn to her arm, to where the detective placed her hand to press the compress on the wound.

Before Root can even process what it means, the detective is back and is surprisingly gentle when she leads Root silently to the breakfast bar to examine the wound closer. She cups Root’s arm in one hand while she pokes and prods around the cut with the other. Shaw’s hands feel searing hot (Root’s not sure why she expected them to be cold) and Root can’t deny that some of that heat is her own body’s reaction.

“It’s deep, but it won’t need stitches,” Shaw intones.

“Good,” she says, letting out a sigh of relief. The diagnosis means she can go. Root can control and conceal a great many things but right now none of this was part of the plan and she feels too exposed. She really just wants to get out of there, and as fast as possible. “I should go then.”

She moves to get up, but Shaw holds her firmly in place. “Let me dress it at least,” the Detective says, and when she meets Shaw’s eyes the genuine concern present is undeniable. Root swallows thickly. This was not her intent, she didn’t bargain for this, and she can’t remember the last time someone looked at her quite like that. Not since childhood probably.

There’s nothing she can do though, she’s trapped, and something she thought she’d buried long ago betrays her because Root is drawn in by that look. She wants to drown in it. She likes it, and likes that it’s coming from Shaw.

Even more of a reason to get out of the current situation.

This kind of glitch in her hardware, or whatever it is, needs to be analyzed and processed but the only way out it seems, is by just allowing Shaw to patch her up. So she bites her lip and nods (not trusting her voice at the moment), and sits back down.

That seems to satisfy the Detective as she begins going through the motions of treating and bandaging Root’s arm. Root watches as a few stray hairs fall into Shaw’s face when the Detective leans close to apply the gel. The urge to brush those stray hairs away gnaws like an unsated itch, and it takes more energy than expected not to act on the impulse.

The hiss she makes as the gel meets her cut is 90% theatrics, but from the flush rising in the other woman’s face, it hits the mark. Root knows she’s playing with fire, but she’s always been a bit reckless.

“I feel so silly for hurting myself like that,” Root sighs, and it’s the truth.

“Yeah well, I can’t exactly talk, can I,” Shaw responds, gesturing to the cast on her leg.

“Is that how you hurt your leg?” Root already knows, but she’s curious if she’s the only one who’s feeling a bit more truthful than normal.

“Yeah, but not exactly an accidental fall. My partner and I were pursuing this perp down a fire escape. Perp was just about to the ground and we were still a flight up. I knew if the guy got to the street with that much of a head start, it’d be really hard to catch him, but my partner was in front of me, blocking the whole staircase. I couldn’t go around him so I just… decided to jump off the 1st story and land on the perp below.”

Shaw sighs, adding, “Anyway, yeah, that’s how I fractured it.”

Root watches as the Detective’s attention returns to her arm, smirking like she’s pleased at her own work.

“You look like you’ve done this before,” Root says, again prodding a bit, but she figures that’s what anyone would say. You know, if they didn’t already know the other person’s entire history.

“I did a few years in med school before I went into the Marines,” Shaw shrugs, as if there wasn’t more to it than that. Root wonders how much of that apathy is real. She recalls from the reports she read (after they met, Root did far more research than she could rationalize necessary) that it seemed from all accounts that being a doctor was something she wanted very, very badly. Even as far back as 4th grade, if the year’s worth of therapist’s notes Root found that first week were anything to go by.

“Well, you’re very skilled,” Root says, and means it. She admires the skill and meticulous nature involved, and Shaw’s medical records had indicated she’s incredibly talented.

But suddenly her thought is interrupted when she notices something. She feels it before she sees it and when she looks down, she sees that Shaw is indeed _caressing her arm_. The accompanying swoop in her stomach, the increase in heart rate, the rush she gets is … well, disconcerting and exhilarating at the same time.

Shaw realizes the unconscious movement just a moment after Root does, stills her hand immediately, and is now just staring at Root.

Just. Staring.

Root wishes she were a computer quite often, but never more than at this moment. If she were a computer, she would be able to run scenarios, explore thousands of individual simulations in the blink of an eye, and select the option with the best outcome. Root is desperate for that sort of detached and rapid assessment skill because right now her traitorous body is screaming so loudly to sate some of those building desires, that she can’t quite process anything other than that.

It’s all too much, and not enough, and thankfully some higher order thinking finally kicks in because suddenly Root remembers her greater mission and what’s really at stake. So she slides her arm free of Shaw’s touch, and manages to get out, “I should go.”

Almost instantly Shaw’s entire body seems to relax, clearly relieved by the out Root has provided. “Yeah, I should get back to…” Shaw trails off, saving them both the trouble of swallowing what was clearly a lame excuse.

Root nods again, and makes her way out as quickly as she can. She’s got one foot out the door when a ridiculous notion stops her in her tracks. What if she just told Shaw the truth? What if she just ended the charade, and stated her intentions (all of them) clearly? Maybe she could convince Shaw that…

No. Shaw would arrest her, that’s what would happen.

So Root snaps her mouth shut again and schedules some mental flogging for later. She’s clearly losing her mind that the thought would even remotely occur to her, let alone that she’d actually consider it. This woman is causing her to bend her own rules and it’s getting dangerous.

She gathers her mailbag and hits the street, already preparing the scrub the entire affair from her mind, when Shaw’s voice stops her.

“Root?”

There’s a flutter inside her of very ridiculous, non-reality based, childish hope. “Yes?”

“Keep it dry. Change the dressing every 72 hours.”

Root grins because it’s not what she wants. It’s something far better and far worse at the same time and she’s a little sick but grounded by the reality of it.

“Will do, doc.”

Root decides to let the events of the day mellow by not delivering to Shaw for the next few days. She’s confident that this is the right choice as her frustrations are still burning strong days later when she uncontrollably takes them out on the creep from the 4th floor. She’d planned on dealing with him in time, but this was impulsive and indulgent, and could have consequences.

It makes her feel more like herself however, more grounded, a little violence goes a long way toward feeling in control again.

While she didn’t think it was likely Shaw would have seen what just happened, if she did, she’s either on full alert and suspicious, or this recent unintentional display could further her appeal. She falls asleep hoping for the latter. Root is ready to get what she came for, collateral damage be damned.

*_*_*_*_*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I cannot thank my lovely beta [seasaltandsawdust](http://archiveofourown.org/users/seasaltandsawdust/profile/) enough. She always manages drag the best out of me (kicking and screaming).


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playing catch up- here's what should have been Tuesday's chapter :) Friday's will arrive on schedule as well. Enjoy!

*_*_*_*_*

 

Shaw is disappointed when she awakens the next morning, she really hoped a good night of sleep would erase the image of Root tasing the guy from the 4th floor, but no such luck. Unused energy from the previous night's aborted rescue mission still itches at Shaw's muscles and she looks at this as a good sign that maybe she’s just restless. Perhaps she just needs more exercise to keep her body (and mind) satisfied.

Injuries have never gotten in the way of a good workout. Shaw isn't about to let them start now, and she certainly isn’t about to let herself go soft either. The cast is just a challenge and an additional excuse to work on more upper body, stomach, and one-legged balance exercises. She’s made it through dips, squats, sit ups, a number of free weight exercises - making due with some of Finch’s meatier books as weights - and is just rounding up with her last set up pushups when the doorbell rings.

The mail had already come much earlier that morning, and even though it’s usually a day Root delivers, she was met with the same elderly postal carrier she’d accidentally yelled at last week. However, when she opens the door and sees Root standing there, for some reason she isn’t particularly shocked. This woman can somehow manage to be predictably unpredictable, if that makes any sense at all.

What she didn’t expect or prepare for though, was seeing Root out of uniform up close and it takes a second for Shaw to absorb it all. The fitted leather jacket, the maroon blouse over dark skinny jeans and the boots (which makes her even that much taller) are a far cry from the drab blue and grey of the normal postal uniform.

Shaw’s gaze follows down (just looking for clues as to why she’s here, of course) until it finally lands on the bags in Root’s hands. Root lifts them up a bit and answers the unspoken question. “I have today off and I thought it might be nice to have lunch together. Think of it as a slightly delayed thank you, for playing doctor the other day,” she says waving her mostly healed forearm. “But it looks like I’m... interrupting something it seems?”

Any trace of that hesitation Root broadcasted the other day is gone, and the woman is anything but candid with her own assessment of Shaw’s appearance, scanning from strong shoulders to bare toned stomach, letting her gaze linger on the sweat that's dripping down Shaw’s neck and pooling in her cleavage. Shaw is fairly certain the little flick of Root’s tongue wetting her bottom lip is two quick and too telling to be anything but purely involuntary, which somehow doubles its potency. Root appears all but one step away from having hearts pop out of her eyes and yelling “AWOOOGA!” like a cartoon character and the moment is suddenly so ridiculous Shaw can’t help but let out annoyed huff at it. “Yeah, well, when you show up unannounced there’s usually a good chance of that.”

“That's a chance I was willing to take,"Root shrugs. "Anyway, I wasn’t sure what you’d want so I got Red Curry, Yellow Curry, Pad Thai, and some noodle dish that had 5 chili peppers next to it.”

“I’ll take that last one.”

“Perfect.”

Both women stare at each other, Shaw waiting for Root to give her the bag and Root waiting for, well, Shaw wasn’t sure. Eventually, Shaw ends the standoff. “What?” she bites, immediately wishes she hadn’t.

“Well,” Root begins, and Shaw detects a note of condescension, like she’s explaining something obvious to a child. “I was hoping to eat lunch _with_ you.”

“I don’t share.” It's the only response Shaw can seem to manage back, and now she really feels childish.

“I guessed you’d say as much, so I got my own too.” Root shakes the heavy bags in question and the smell wafts _just so_ , making Shaw’s mouth water. Lunch now in the equation, Shaw's stomach overrules her gut and she reasons maybe sharing a meal wouldn't be so bad. She figures this seems to be a well intentioned gesture, and she doesn’t exactly hate Root’s company. The opposite as it’s turning out, which is why she’d decided over the last couple days she really needed to set some boundaries. Shaw rolls her eyes, “Fine.” She grabs a sweatshirt off the peg just inside the door, before hobbling a few steps outside and closing it behind her. “But we’re eating out here.”

“Whatever you like.” Root turns and sits down on the top step. Shaw crutches over as well and eases herself down as far away from the woman as she can be. Root doesn’t comment but begins to slowly and meticulously remove each container from the bag and arrange it on the concrete between them. It goes on for about 20 seconds longer than Shaw can stand, so she doesn’t feel bad about impatiently grabbing a bag out of Root’s hands and digging out her own food herself. Shaw discards the rest of the bag and its contents and sets to work digging into her own container.

She shovels the first bite in, her eyes closing briefly and involuntarily as she just fucking savors, because it's perfection. The broad rice noodles and veggies are tender and dripping in sauce, far from traditional but just the way Shaw likes it. The dish is not only piping hot but also spicy to the point that would bring most people to tears (again just the way she likes it). Shaw revels in the burn, shoveling a few more bites in before remembering that she isn’t alone.

She steals a glance at the woman to her left, expecting to find the woman creepily staring back, but instead finds Root focused on her own meal, smiling lightly as she slowly picks at steamed veggies and some chicken thing over rice. Satisfied that Root doesn’t appear to have designs on ruining Shaw’s lunch with any awkward staring or talking, at least for the moment, Shaw happily returns to her own meal.

It goes on like that for the remainder of the time, both women eating their meals quietly. The silence is surprisingly comfortable and Shaw finds that noteworthy considering she can’t remember of the last time that’s happened; her sitting in companionable silence with another person.

She’d like to say it happens with Reese when they go shooting, but that’s more about them just inhabiting the same space at the same time, focusing on a shared activity.

She thinks the closest she’s come to something like that is when she and Fusco sit for stakeouts, but even then she can feel his guard up. It’s likely the case because he’s expecting her to say something disparaging towards him at any moment, pick apart something about him just for fun (which is a reasonable assumption since it’s her go-to when she’s bored), to which he has to be ready with a quick retort. They both know the jabs are all in good fun and Shaw would never tell him, but she feels really lucky to have him as a partner. He’s a good guy and a good friend, and Shaw’s never really had many (if any) of those.

But this thing, with Root? This feels distinctly different. The two of them are sitting together, not just in proximity, but in purpose and intention. They’re sharing more than just space or food, they’re sharing the moment and peaceably enjoying each other’s company. Almost like… a date?

That thought crossing her consciousness at all is surprising enough to spur Shaw into immediate action. She scrambles up quickly almost like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t, muttering a quick, “Thanks for lunch.”

She’s at the door by the time Root catches her sleeve and it takes every fiber of Shaw’s being not to physically push the taller woman off the front stoop and away from her entirely.

“Do you want the leftovers?” Root offers. “I’d be happy to put them in your fridge for you…”

She simply cannot understand how Root continues to be immune to Shaw’s overall rude-bordering-on-erratic behavior, when most people would have ran for the hills long before this point. It’s infuriating actually, all aspects of whatever this ‘thing’ it is that they’re doing, so Shaw just looks confused when she says, “Look, I’m going to put this really simply for you: I don’t do relationships. So if that’s what you’re after, you can forget it.”

“Well good thing I don't want a relationship then,” Root chuckles. She crosses her arms, and hold’s Shaw’s gaze. “And here I thought we were just negotiating over leftover Thai food…”

“Well what the hell _do_ you want then?” Shaw tries for agitated but her voice just sounds weary.

Root doesn’t say anything to that, she simply smiles and stares back in a way that feels less like undressing Shaw with her eyes and more like she’s flaying Shaw, slowly, and enjoying every minute of it.

Historically, even people that say they don’t want a relationship, actually do. Yet something about the way that Root says it coupled with the look that she gives, makes Shaw believe that maybe the woman really could be simply interested in a night (or three) of fun.

The idea of _that_ causes something inside to Shaw flash white hot. She feels like she might ignite and wonders what it might be like to let Root burn her to the ground in one of the thousands of possible ways the woman’s eyes seem to be broadcasting.

But then, Shaw remembers the other day patching Root up, her own hand lingering on the other woman’s and the quiet internal debating they both had over the mutually uncharacteristic gesture. There is something going on, something more than Shaw would like to admit to, and that thought is sobering enough to help reign herself in. Shaw shakes her head (though it’s unclear if she’s dismissing Root, herself, or both) before meeting Root’s gaze solidly.

“I’ll take the Red Curry.”

Root doesn’t lose eye contact as she hands over the appropriate bag, and neither does Shaw as she brushes past Root’s fingertips, grabs the plastic handle and mutters a quiet “yeah so, thanks,” as she turns to head inside.

Root smiles and says nothing, and as Shaw meets her eyes again for only a second before the door closes, in that moment she’s never felt more exposed.

Inside Shaw decides to focus on annoyance. She chooses to grind her teeth over the idea that this random woman who she’s known for a little more than two weeks can get the last word on her without saying anything at all. She chooses to occupy herself with the adventures of Hermione and her band of idiots for the remainder of the night instead (Hermione was just bringing that Umbridge bitch into the forest, hopefully to kill her, and she really hopes Sirius is okay and yeah, fine, she's totally invested in this stupid series now).

She's glad for the distraction though. Anything to keep her thoughts pointedly away from the idea of Root’s ability to cut through her (figuratively and literally) and whether that it’s an accurate perception of the situation, or worse, her own desire’s projection.

 

*_*_*_*_*


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahoy there. For those of you curious as to when the 'M' rated content is going to show up, consider this chapter the beginning tastes of that. More specific tags will be added as more specific tag-worthy things come along. Just a heads up is all.

*_*_*_*_*

 

After their last conversation, Shaw has come to a conclusion about what needs to be done.

It’s clear she needs to put distance between herself and Root. As much as possible, in fact. Interactions moving forward should be brief, perfunctory, and definitely no more shared lunches. Shaw also decides she also needs to get out of this friggin' house more, maybe try for more walks, or just sit at the park with Bear. This weekend ought to help too. She'll be meeting up with Carter and the guys at the bar, and if that isn’t enough to give her a hard reset, she doesn’t know what would. But for now, if Root so much as bats an eyelash or throws one innuendo her way, Shaw is just going to go back inside and close the door. Fuck Harold’s packages.

This new strategy is poised and ready when she opens the door the next day. Root looks very much the same as every other day though her, “Good afternoon,” lacks its usual peppiness.

“Is it?” Shaw intones, steading herself for whatever dialogue hurdles she’ll need to pass in order to get to the end of the interaction.

It seems there’s no need though, as Root simply hands the package over to Shaw. “No signature needed this time,” Root adds, answering Shaw’s unspoken question aloud. “Have a good day!” There’s a quick smile, a rather understated one too, and before Shaw can process it, Root’s down the steps and onto the next house.

Shaw stares after her, frozen for a minute before she frowns and closes the door behind her. She deposits the package in what is becoming a growing heap, and settles back down on the couch.

Despite this type of interaction being exactly what Shaw's wanted the entire time, now that she has it she finds it disturbingly lacking for some reason. It’s not like she wants Root coming on to her, but she wouldn’t mind-

-Shaw stops herself mid thought. What wouldn’t she mind? Shockingly she realizes that train of thought could have easily ended with ‘a little conversation’.

What. The actual. Fuck.

The idea that _Shaw_ might be the person out of the pair looking for, wanting something more, from their interactions is a truly unexpected one. The idea settles in her stomach in a heavy way that feels like truth.

All the more reason to look forward to meeting up with Carter and the boys tomorrow night, it’ll be just the booster shot of normalcy she needs to get herself back on track. They’ll go to the bar, have a few drinks, play some pool (beating Reese on one leg will be very satisfying) and maybe round off the evening in a hot stranger’s bed. Business as usual. Except for the giant cast, that would definitely be interesting to work around, but Shaw’s never been one to shy away from a challenge, especially in the bedroom.

The longer she mulls on the idea, the more sense it makes. Any interest (of any kind) in Root _has_ to be attributed to her isolation, right? In the desert, with an absence of water, people can get tricked into drinking the sand. Root’s a mirage, a tempting and convenient option to wet her whistle, nothing more. Once Shaw has someone else she can have some fun with in front of her, she’s sure Root will fade. She’s sure of it.

 

*_*_*_*_*

 

“-and he was wearing nothin’ but socks and a Nixon mask.”

“No way,” Carter scoffs, shaking her head in disbelief.

Fusco shrugs, taking a long drag of his beer before answering, “It’s true. Naked as the day he was born. Cuffed him and brought him in just like that. Right Shaw?”

Shaw nods slightly, affirming the story before knocking back the last of her own drink. They’d only been at the bar a little over an hour but she’d already kicked Reese’s ass at pool, and was three whiskey’s down with a good buzz going. Despite still being a bit early the place was packed, already churning with a Saturday night crowd on the prowl.

The waiter swings by the booth with peanuts for the table and another whiskey for Shaw (after her second one she made sure the waiter had no doubt that she wanted to keep them coming). She immediately takes a good-sized gulp, and she’s had enough that the burn she should feel as the liquid slides down her throat registers as no more than pleasant warmth.

“Maybe you should slow down a bit, Shaw,” Reese says, nodding at the drink in her hand.

“And maybe you should mind your own business, John,” she bits back, purposefully taking another sip just to spite him. “This is the first time in almost 3 weeks that I’ve been out somewhere, so sue me if I want to enjoy it.”

“And, what, double vision equals double the fun?” Fusco chuckles from the booth seat next to her.

“Maybe I just need to be drunk just to deal with your company,” Shaw snarks back with a grin, finishing her drink and setting the tumbler down loudly on the table between them all. “And believe me Lionel, one of you is quite enough.” Shaw lets her gaze wander over the crowd, browsing for someone that could very well double her fun.

When she turns back, she’s met by Carter’s all too observant gaze. “Looks like you’re looking for a different type of company all together Shaw. I was wondering how you were coping going all this time without. I was considering dropping a fresh set of double-AA’s by Finch’s even.”

Fusco does a mini spit-take at the implication, which morphs into a mild coughing fit, both of which Shaw ignores completely. Instead, she meets Carter’s pointed look with a roll of her eyes, accompanied by a small smirk. “I’ve been managing just fine on my own.”

The waiter, probably keeping Shaw’s previous explicit instructions to him in mind, quickly deposits another whiskey on the table. Shaw moves to grab it but Carter snatches it first, grinning at Shaw as she takes a long sip of the drink herself. Carter swirls the amber liquid in the glass slowly, meeting Shaw’s glare with an easy smile. “So what else have you been up to, because I can’t imagine you being totally idle this long.”

Shaw leans across the table and takes the glass out of Carter’s hand. She takes a reasonable sized drink before sitting back, mumbling “I keep busy.”

Beside her Fusco snorts around his beer bottle. “Yeah, she’s picked up a new hobby. _Birdwatching_ , right Shaw? OOF!” He winces as he receives an elbow to his ribs.

“Birdwatching?” Reese chimes in, and Shaw would really love to punch that little smirk of his off his face.

“Yeah, caught her watching ‘birds’,” Fusco continues, adding an overdramatic flourish of finger quotes for the word, “across the street through a pair of binoculars the other night.”

 “ _Birds_ , huh?”  And now Carter’s grinning at her too.

 “Yeah, I’m thinkin’ she’s going a bit _Rear Window_ on us personally. Told her to call Reese if she starts seein’ things ‘cause I ain’t dealin’ with that shit.”

 “Careful Shaw. Whoever you’re staring at might just stare back and-“

She doesn’t stick around for whatever other platitudes John has. Instead she hops out of the booth, grabbing her crutches. She ignores their chuckling pleads for her to come back and sit down, and instead makes a beeline for the nearest bar stool. Her new best friend/bartender meets her there with another refill before blessedly disappearing into the woodwork once more.

She knows it’s stupid to get so rankled because what do those guys know anyway? All Fusco observed was her holding the binoculars. He doesn’t even know about Root, no one does. Because she’s not worth telling about. She’s just some Postal worker with long legs, a quick mouth and a propensity for violence. Hardly noteworthy. She’s not on Shaw’s mind at the moment because she’s intriguing or hot or because she’s unlike anyone Shaw’s ever met. It’s not even because Shaw’s somewhere between buzzed and solidly tipsy, it’s because Root’s just so… annoying. Yeah, that’s the word. The woman is less of an impressive symphony and more like a catchy jingle that gets stuck in your head until you finally find another song to take its place. And Shaw has not been _staring_  like Fusco said either. She doesn’t stare. She’s just… investigating. It’s what she does, after all. And the mystery of Root has been irritating and consuming, like an itch she can’t reach and now she’s thinking how good it would feel the scratch of…

Shaw’s so deep in that train of thought that she almost misses the “I said, are you okay?” from next to her. When it finally registers, she turns and is met with a rather attractive face. The man in front of her presents with just the right amount of stubble, purposefully tanned skin, chiseled features and dark, dark eyes to draw Shaw out of her own thoughts and into an acceptably distracting reality.

Looking him over once more, Shaw smirks to herself and feels a modicum of relief. It’s like fate plopped an answer to the riddle of how to get that damn jingle out of her head once and for all.

Shaw turns her body towards the attractive stranger, their knees just brushing in the proximity (careful to keep her cast out of the way), and dawns what she considers her most seductive smile. “Oh, I’m much better, now that you’re here.”

The man chuckles in response. “That’s a bit cheesy for someone as classy as you I think,” he says, sipping his own whiskey in time with her.

“You’re probably right,” she admits, setting her glass down on the bar next to her. “So what’s your name?”

“My name’s Guy. Guy Dalton. And you are?”

“Charmed,” Shaw answers and gets right to it. “So, Guy, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?” She asks, knowing that his answer will likely keep him occupied for at least a few minutes while she decides if he’s worth the time.

She’s right of course, and as Guy the guy launches into what promises to be a long-winded explanation of the exciting world of investment banking, Shaw takes the time to evaluate the man more fully. Good hair and teeth, bad breath, nice shirt but a cheap shoes; he’s invested in his appearance but only to a point. He’s only slightly drunk, so that’s a minimum level of good decision making, but the whiskey he’s drinking looks watered down and is likely cheaper than the shoes and is bound to cause a monster hangover (negating any previous presumption of intelligence). Investment banking lacks imagination and she finds herself wondering if that might translate to the bedroom as well.

She can picture it now: He’ll wrap up his egotistical soliloquy with some transparent and tired segue for them to ‘get out of here’. If Shaw accepts she knows that’ll lead them almost directly back to his place. Judging by his trying-to-look-more-expensive-than-it-is suit jacket, she’s sure Guy’s apartment is a flop too. His attempt at classy minimalism will make it look haphazard and unfinished, with all the wrong single pieces mish moshed together. Maybe they’d make it to the bedroom (throwing the undoubtedly hideous duvet aside) but more likely they’d only get as far as his ugly white leather couch.

Guy-guy will taste like the cheap whiskey from the bar and the cheap cigarette he’ll probably smoke while waiting for their cab. The kiss will be messy and wet and Shaw will want to bite his lip, hard, but mostly out of annoyance. She’ll inevitably end up on top of him, having to do most of the work (which sounds really unpleasant with the cast), and for his part Guy the guy will grope undexterously at her through her shirt, all the while continuing his unskilled assault at her mouth.

Shaw pictures the whole thing as sloppy and far too passive and her mind somehow, _somehow_ , slips to Root and that quick mouth of hers, instead.

She figures it’s just because she imagines there’s no way Root would be that passive. No, if anything Shaw would be the one smashed against the wall in the entryway of Root's apartment (they probably wouldn’t even make it to the couch). The tasteful exposed brick wall would be as cold on Shaw’s back as Root would be warm and she wouldn’t even mind the way the rough texture would scrape her skin as Root presses further into her, probably grabbing a handful of Shaw’s hair at the same time, before beginning the attacking on her neck.

Shaw imagines the taller woman likely nixing the foreplay and getting down to business. Root would promptly skip past Shaw’s underwear, sliding two fingers on either side of her clit before pushing them inside her (which wouldn’t be a problem because it’s not like Shaw wouldn’t already be wet). Root would undoubtedly hiss when Shaw’s nails dig into her back, but it’s the good kind of hiss, the kind that lets Shaw know that Root probably appreciates the pain as much as she likes inflicting it. And _fuck_ , because the look of pure predatory lust Root gives would make her want to clench around the woman’s fingers far too soon.

Of course, (if her previously observed sadist streak is anything to go by) Root wouldn’t give Shaw what she wants right away. Yeah, thinking about it, Root’s definitely a tease, and Shaw wagers she would most certainly go just slightly too slow, only brushing Shaw’s clit now and again, probably feasting off the way Shaw’s hips would buck unconsciously from need.

Fuck that though, Shaw hasn’t waited all this time not to get what she wants. Showing her she means business, Shaw imagines herself finding Root’s bottom lip and biting down hard only to-

-“So what do you say? Should we move this party some place more interesting? Say, my place?”

Guy’s question plucks Shaw from her fantasy, landing her all too soundly in a now far inferior reality. The night’s prospect in front of her is suddenly looking far less attractive than he had only minutes earlier. She’s extra pissed because now Root’s even in her fantasies and somehow, even from that vantage point, the woman is still managing to ruin Shaw’s evening.

Shaw decides she’s had enough. She quickly ditches Guy and swings by the booth to bid Lionel and the crew a hasty goodnight before hobbling out to the street to hail a cab. She fumes the whole cab ride back. She’s drunk, frustrated, completely unsatisfied and yes, still horny and she has only Root (okay, and maybe herself) to blame.

They pull up to Finch’s building and she more or less throws the money at the cabbie before disembarking. Shaw checks her watch as she reaches the top of the front stoop (11:45pm) before permitting herself a glance towards the adjacent building. The shades on the second floor apartment are already drawn which only serves to piss her off further.

Bear raises his head slightly when she enters the apartment, but once he identifies Shaw, lays it back down again. She forgoes brushing her teeth or even pajamas, before stripping down to her underwear and t-shirt and climbing into bed.

Shaw dismisses the vague echoes of Joss’s comment about Double-AA batteries and any thoughts of whatever potential (or lack thereof) Guy may have held because… Fuck. Absolutely. Everyone _._ In the end, Shaw knows if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.

So she lets her own hand wander past the waistband of her boy-shorts and empties her mind completely, eventually coming undone on her own fingers to the thought of absolutely nothing. Especially not a certain postal employee.

 

*_*_*_*_*


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter includes an _extremely_ graphic depiction of a delicious dinner. Appetites beware. :)

*_*_*_*_*

  

“Hey there Sweetie.”

“Just give it to me.”

“You know, in a different context-“

“- _Root_.”

“Fine. No need to be rude.”

Shaw takes the package and firmly shuts the door behind her ignoring the overwhelming feeling of Déjà vu.

But the Déjà vu isn’t just perceived because Shaw knows for a fact that she’s experienced this before. This makes the third day in a row, in fact.

After the aborted hook up with Guy the guy, she’s given up a little and allowed her thoughts to undeniably find their way more and more often back to Root. To Root’s obnoxiously long legs, smug red-lipped smirk, and all-too apparent lack of fucks to give about anything or anyone (except Shaw perhaps?). Root, with her absolutely shameless innuendos, her bedroom eyes, and even the black nail polish she’d been wearing the last three days that would look really good against Shaw’s throat.

Shaw shakes her head. Yes, she’d given up on blocking everything out and allowed herself to fantasize a bit, but it stops there. However, that was the problem though wasn’t it? She couldn’t seem to shake the real and present Root, standing right in front of her. She was at the front door every few days with packages and flirtations, infiltrating her fantasies and threatening to spread out into the other parts of her mind as well. Shaw can at least limit the amount of face-to-face interaction and even then she has difficulty escaping Root’s gravitational pull.

Shaw is disgusted with herself that anyone, especially this someone, could occupy so much of her mind. That’s why she’s more determined than ever not to give into the temptation of Root, if for no other reason than to prove to herself she can. After all, Harold will be back in a couple days and then she’ll never see Root again.

The weather predicts thunderstorms for the evening, heavy rain, wind, nasty stuff, so she gets some fresh air while she can. Shaw takes Bear for a walk (pointedly ignoring even looking in the direction of the apartment building across the street) and when she returns she decides to immerse herself in an all-day project: Cooking dinner.

During their meet up the other night, Fusco had mentioned all the takeout Shaw had been getting. The very next day Carter called to say she was swinging by with groceries. “I’m afraid you’re going to get scurvy,” she said. Shaw was not about to volunteer that she’d already been getting groceries as well; she’s never been one turn down food. And since all food during her stay is on Finch’s dime, she had no hesitation in making a few special requests.

Carter dropped them off yesterday and it’s with those special request items that she plans on making tonight’s dinner. Not that she’d admit it to anyone else, but cooking can be as cathartic as shooting a gun sometimes (with the added bonus that she gets to eat something tasty at the end) so she lets herself get delightfully immersed in the process. Today’s task: Crab and Roasted Corn stuffed ravioli with bacon, thyme, and parmesan cream sauce. And of course a filet minion (medium rare, seared and finished in the oven) on the side. Because any meal is improved with a side of steak.

She roasts corn before cutting it off the cob, cracks the King Crab, taking the meat out and chopping it before mixing it in a bowl with the roasted corn, mascarpone, and thyme. She sets it aside in the fridge before getting to work on some fresh pasta. Flour, egg yolks and a little TLC and the dough is ready to roll. She feeds it into the KitchenAid pasta attachment (how Finch can have that and not a coffee maker she’ll never understand) and once it’s thin enough she cuts it into squares. A scoop of filling for each, another square on top, and she sets the ravioli aside for now.

For the sauce, Shaw sautés minced onion in butter with garlic, adds a splash of white wine, lets that cook off a bit before adding a touch of flour, a little milk and letting it thicken a tad. Then heavy cream, salt and pepper, thyme, dash of fresh rosemary, before finishing it off with a shit ton of shredded manchego cheese. She throws a lid on the sauce, places it aside, and sets to work prepping the filet minion. She’s had it out and resting and now coats it in just olive oil and sea salt, sears it in cast iron and throws the whole thing - pan and all - into the hot oven.

She sautés some bacon in the frying pan (because what sauce doesn’t benefit from bacon?) and places the ravioli in a pot of boiling water for 3-5 minutes. By the time that’s done, she grabs the filet out, setting it to rest before scooping out the ravioli onto the largest plate she can find, smothering it with sauce, chopped bacon, and finishing with a little sprinkle of fresh parsley.

Outside the storm is raging, but inside Shaw could not give a damn, this meal is so professional Gordon Ramsey would be proud (she’d given in and watched not one, but four full seasons of Hell’s Kitchen so far). Shaw stands back, examining her work. She smiles big and proud at her meal _,_ she’d always figured she would fucking kill it on any one of those cooking shows.

Her parents taught her how to cook from the time she could walk and talk so when the kitchen became still and stagnant like everything else after it happened, she continued to do what she knew. Most things come easy to Shaw, more than easy, it was like everything she ever tried was ingrained in the marrow of her bones and her body (and mind) acted on natural impulse. But when her father died that impulse felt foreign; not that it wasn't there, just that those same muscles and synapses didn't know what to do with it, how to categorize and how it move with it, how to allow it to land somewhere instead of fluttering around deep in her gut. So she did what was consistent and comforting and what she could control. It was an unintentional consequence that it brought her mother back to the present as well. Shaw has a thin burn scar from that time, it runs in a straight line over the top of her right thigh, which is what happens when a small girl standing on a stool leans too close to a hot griddle. That scar is what brought her mother back and so she’s thankful for it, but also forgets it’s even there until her mom brings it up or asks to ‘see if it’s faded any’. Shaw knows some scars don’t always belong to the people wearing them, but still doesn’t really understand why.

As much as she loves food, and considering the amount of cooking she did throughout her time at home, it seems inconsistent but she now rarely takes the time to make it herself. One small perk to her mandatory leave, she supposes.

The lights flicker for a moment as she carefully carries her plates to the dining room. Last week she decided to clear a space on the table there- impetus to not sit near the window any more (and also she may have made a little fort for Bear out of the numerous packages that had been piling up).

She settles down to her meal, inhaling the rich aroma, making her mouth water. The steak cuts like butter and she halves one of the plump ravioli, making sure to swirl it in more sauce before adding the steak for the perfect bite.

There’s a low moaning noise and it takes Shaw a moment to realize it’s her making it. The food is _glorious_ though and Shaw chews slowly, savoring it, but as she goes for a second bite, the lights overhead flicker once more.

…Before going out completely.

Since the shades are drawn, it is pitch-black inside the apartment. Her cellphone would certainly be adequate lighting for the time being… but as she tries to think of where it might be, she draws a blank (it’s been a busy day for once after all). The only light she has currently is that provided by her watch- and that’s only if she keeps pressing the button. Shaw debates just finishing her meal in the dark but in the end slams the table in frustration before getting up to search for candles.

Shaw’s not delicate in her rummaging. Anything interrupting a meal rarely leaves her in the mood, so most of the contents from junk drawer next to the stove, the cabinet over the washing machine, and now the cupboard under the sink have been unceremoniously rifled through. Shaw is scanning inside the last few drawers- one inch at a time, by the light of her watch- when she hears the knock at the door.

She manages to make her way there (despite almost tripping over Bear) but her mood turns from dark to positively black as she opens the door to find Root, flashlight and cardboard box in hand, on the other side.

“Power went out for the whole neighborhood, and I thought you might need some supplies,” the taller woman says. Rain beats at her back, dripping off the yellow slicker and puddling near the woman’s ridiculous neon green galoshes. Somehow, despite the garish outfit, Shaw’s reptilian brain still manages to note that Root’s hair looks kind of hot soaking wet.

“Just a few storm essentials,” Root smirks, attempting another of her poorly executed ‘winks’. “May I come in?”

She would love to say ‘no.’ Actually, considering the way her own body reacts completely unbidden at the mere sight of Root, Shaw would love to scream ‘hell no’ into Root’s face- before shoving the postal employee as hard as she could, down the stairs an back out into the puddle she crawled out of. However, Shaw would also love to have enough light to finish her meal…the meal she spent hours preparing and is rapidly growing cold, somewhere in the darkness behind her. “Fine, just for a sec though.”

Root grins and steps into the darkness. She leads Shaw by flashlight towards the dining room table, setting the box of supplies next to Shaw’s plate. “Whatever you’re eating smells fantastic. Did you make it?”

Shaw ignores the question, pushing Root aside a bit so she can dig into the box. Inside is about a dozen candles of various sizes (and scents), a few books of matches and a large bottle of what looks like well-aged Lagavulin whiskey. Shaw picks up the bottle, “Essentials?”

“Spirits to keep our spirits up. How about I set up these candles, you finish your dinner, and I’ll join you for a drink?”

“No.”

Root reaches into the box, taking care to brush against Shaw just slightly more than could ever conceivably be considered appropriate. She plucks a candle and a book of matches holding them up. “You know, it’s usually polite to offer Good Samaritans a drink when they bring you supplies.”

“I’m not much for manners.”

Root strikes a match, lighting the wick. It casts flickering shadows over them both and the room as a whole making everything slightly ominous (or maybe that’s just Shaw’s interpretation). “Come on Detective, one drink with me isn’t going to kill you is it?”

Shaw’s stomach grumbles, and she sneaks a look at her homemade meal- likely well on its way from lukewarm to cold. “Okay. One drink. Just- just let me eat in peace first though.”

“Absolutely.”

 

*_*_*_*_* 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya friends. This chapter has actually been guest written by the lovely [seasaltandsawdust](http://archiveofourown.org/users/seasaltandsawdust/profile/) (who has solidly refused to be added as a coauthor, despite my continued insistence). Her writing this chapter has been the plan since the beginning (as writing smut is not my strong suit) so, if you like it, direct all praise her way :) 
> 
> **Note: Rating has changed from 'M' to 'E'** as seasaltandsawdust said, "Well, that escalated quickly...my bad."

*_*_*_*_*

 

Shaw doesn’t wait a second longer before sitting back down to eat. The ravioli is vaguely warm and the meat is room temperature, and it’s still delicious and rich. A few hours ago Shaw would have sworn there was nothing that could tear her attention away from something so tasty, yet she still finds herself glancing up every few minutes, watching Root as she flits around the place.

Somewhere in that time Root has taken off her rain boots and is now padding around with Bear at her side, alternating between ruffling his head and setting up candles. At least they're the big glass chunky kind that smell like maple waffles and sugar cookies and other pleasant things and not those tall cheesy romantic lighting type that always seem to proceed a ridiculous sex scene. Who the fuck has time to light a hundred candles before getting it on? Shaw shifts in her seat a bit, pleasure experienced from taste and sight is getting muddled and as Shaw finishes her last bite one type of hunger has shifted to another.

Root finishes lighting the last candle and returns to the table, placing it in the middle and pulling out the chair across from Shaw. Her sitting down seems to propel Shaw up though and the detective collects the items in front of her hastily under the pretense of clearing her dishes.

Shaw crutches to the kitchen, rinsing the plate briefly before shucking it in the dishwasher, back still to Root.

“There’s still ravioli,” Shaw starts and immediately regrets it, finishing the thought with a little waver and a little more exposition than necessary, “if, you know, you didn’t get a chance to eat it’s here already and with the power out…”

She trails off there at the end because she’s now turned around and looking right at Root, who’s still just sitting there. But her forearms are now resting lightly on the table, her fingers just barely touching and she looks so deep in thought that when Root turns her head to the side and meets Shaw’s eyes, Shaw feels almost like she’s interrupted something.

“Sounds lovely, but I just ate. Raincheck?” There’s emphasis on the ‘rain’ and the little smile that accompanies it is light and silly and is a stark contrast to the intensity Shaw’s reading in her eyes and body language.

Shaw’s mind is a bit scratched when it comes to Root, snippets of intelligent thoughts and warnings play briefly before skipping without warning back to the start.

She still doesn't have a plan, even as she grabs a tumbler from the cupboard and returns to the living room. Root’s still seated at the table where Shaw left her, and the detective doesn't spare another glance as she grabs the whiskey bottle from the box and heads to the couch.

She unscrews the top, pouring a few fingers into the crystal glass as Root (realizing she wasn’t likely getting a formal invitation) silently gets up and walks over, settling in the chair near the window and across from the edge of the couch that Shaw’s currently occupying.

“May I have some?”

Shaw finally looks up. Root’s legs are crossed and she’s leaning easily into the chair with a relaxed posture while at the same time radiating that intensity Shaw had seen a moment earlier. Maybe it’s the absence of the usual frequent verbal advances, or maybe it’s the way Root keeps unconsciously busying her hands on the hem of her shirt that lowers her defenses just slightly, but without thinking she’s shifting forward and handing over the glass.

“What about you?” Root asks, receiving the tumbler and brushing Shaw’s fingers as she does.

Shaw raises the bottle to her lips in answer, daring Root to say anything. Root raises an eyebrow but says nothing and simply mirrors Shaw, bringing her own drink to her lips. Shaw watches the other woman's face contort into a poorly disguised grimace, nose scrunching in a way Shaw would never admit to finding adorable, and she chuckles despite herself. She takes another long drag from the bottle, hoping the bitter bite will cleanse her pallet, before letting her gaze drift away.

Root uncrosses her legs and sets her glass down, the amber liquid that remains refracting the candlelight, giving it a sort of fiery glow. Shaw just watches as Root stands without a word and heads into the kitchen with purposeful strides before calling over a shoulder.

“I hate to drink without ice, even the good stuff. I doubt it’s melted in there just yet.”

Shaw wants this to be awful. She wants Root’s presence to be grating, for it to feel imposing, suffocating… but it doesn’t. She wants to say that every interaction with the postal employee has been painful, that she wishes she’d never met Root, that her days here at Harold’s would have been better without her, but she can’t.

Root is hard to quantify. She’s clearly different in some way that Shaw just can’t place, and definitely has little regard for personal boundaries (at least as far as Shaw’s personal space goes). On the other hand, she seem to have another side to her, and even appears genuinely thoughtful at times, though it’s hard to parse how much might be for secondary gain (i.e. getting in Shaw’s pants).

On that note, Shaw admits that at least Root’s straightforward. Maybe a bit blunt, but there’s something to be said for knowing what you want and pursuing it. Hell, that’s Shaw’s standard operating procedure.

And yes, Root is hot. She’d stopped denying that she’s attracted to the other woman a while ago. Extremely attracted even, and that's usually the only measure that Shaw would need to rationalize a hook up. In fact, she’s fairly sure that under different circumstances, Shaw would have fucked her already. So what's different about Root, what is it about this stranger that’s causing her to hold back? Originally it was as simple as she would be stuck seeing Root until Harold returned, and Shaw just didn’t want to deal with the potential emotional backlash from Root’s end if she slept with her once or twice and was done and still then had to see her every day. That type of mess and annoyance just isn’t worth the fun, it would just be trading an itch for a headache.

But somehow it became another reason entirely. Shaw remembers her own hand treading softly back and forth over the bandage on Root’s arm, her body responding to some impulse she’d never really understood and never really cared to learn. Surprisingly, it wasn't wholly unpleasant, just a bit foreign, and Shaw finds herself curious as to what might happen if she relied less on what was controlled and deliberate and more on following the same gut impulses that guide the other aspects of her life.

“Looks like you really aren’t into sharing.” Root’s voice cuts through the white noise of the rain, pulling her out of that thought.

The tumbler Root had left on the coffee table is now in her hand and even though there isn’t much liquid left, she deposits a large single ice cube into it carefully. Shaw follows Root’s gaze to the bottle of whiskey in her own hands, realizing she’d drained an inch or two it at some point during her introspection and has it buried in the crook of her elbow. “Told you, sharing’s not my strong suit.”

Despite that, Shaw unfurls her arms a bit and leans forward, pouring just enough to surround the ice but not cover it.

Root sits back down and smiles over the rim of her glass before tipping her head back slowly, the alcohol hitting her throat a little easier now. Shaw can’t help but follow the elegant line of her neck, and doesn't even try to suppress the thought of what that throat might look like under her palm. But something hits even harder and more visceral at that image reversed, Root’s fingers wrapped around her own neck.

And maybe that’s exactly why Root’s been able to spread out and take hold, because she comes on strong and then retracts, builds pressure between them only to take it away before it’s too much. She fills Shaw’s lungs with a heaviness that’s almost to the point of suffocating, before releasing that grip with a light quip Shaw can’t help but find amusing (even when she doesn’t let it show) and she’s finally able to let in some air with a huff and eyeroll.

It’s been four weeks and it’s only now, in this moment, that Shaw is suddenly acutely aware the game she’s playing, and how she’s playing it. Root’s strategy on the surface seems so varied, like she’s operating at different frequencies with no real plan. But Shaw knows now it’s all been calculated and deliberate because in trying to figure her out Shaw got distracted, couldn’t predict the next move, and somewhere along the way Root had already slipped in.

Shaw’s just pissed she let it happen. Pissed and unsettled, and maybe just a tad impressed.

The silence in the room is zero sum at the moment, easy but thick, and there’s a tense undercurrent but the whisky is sitting nicely in Shaw’s stomach and each sip seems to rock that balance. The rain outside is somehow growing stronger, and it would be cliché to say that the storm brewing inside is just as real, but that wouldn’t make it any less true.

Shaw appears to be staring absently at nothing but is discreetly focused on Root’s fingers now. The nails that have been painted black the last few days are just starting to wear at the tops and Shaw can see why. Root’s posture is composed and comfortable, but she’s unconsciously worrying the fingers of the hand not holding the glass against the pad of her thumb and Shaw wonders if it’s an everyday habit or situational.

A crack of thunder breaks outside and a second later Root breathes in deeply and chuckles, bringing a socked foot up to nudge at the book on the coffee table.

“A little light reading?”

Shaw notes the thick final volume of the series that’s held the bulk of her attention these past few weeks. “Yeah… I guess, there wasn’t anything else to read.”

“Well, seeing as though you’re on the Deathly Hallows means you’ve read… what, three thousand pages so far? So I would hope you’re at least enjoying it.”

“You’ve read it?” Shaw takes another big swig from the bottle and is trying (and failing) to not look as interested in discussing Harry Potter with another person as she is.

“Of course I have, but it’s been a while.” Root is swirling her drink more than actually drinking it, unabashedly excited at the topic of conversation. “Please tell me you’ve taken one of those online tests that sorts you into a house.”

“Can’t say that I have,” Shaw says, setting an internal reminder to look that up on her laptop as soon as humanly possible.

Root narrows her eyes a bit, finally taking a long drag of her drink and cocking her head to the side just so. “I bet I could guess your house.”

“You don’t even know me.” Shaw answers a little too fast, almost like she doesn’t want Root to believe (or prove) that she actually might.

Root pauses and just smiles and stares, tracing the rim of her glass over and over like it’s conducting all the energy in the room. “Maybe you’re right, but from what I know I can definitely say you’re most like the Whomping Willow, I’ve gotten close a couple of times but mostly you keep swatting me away.”

“Yeah, well, I like my space.” Shaw concedes, Root’s observation is actually a pretty accurate description of the situation. “You seem pretty impervious to it anyway.”

“I’m not one to give up on something I want,” and there it is, that vise getting tighter.

But Root continues, leaning forward with the most mischievous and self-satisfied grin yet, “and on that note I think if you let me push the right button you’d see we can turn this place into our own shrieking shack.”

Shaw was a second away from taking another drink and couldn’t be any more grateful that she hadn’t already, because there’s no way she could have contained a mouth full of liquid after that. Because between the break in tension and how absolutely awful that line was, she couldn’t hold back a genuine laugh.

“That was by far the worst line I’ve ever heard.”

Root laughs herself and leans back, pleased with the response. “I live to amuse.”

“So what about you,” Shaw finally takes her drink and settles back also, decides to turn the tables a bit, “Which house are you in?”

“Slytherin.” There’s no hesitation with the answer but Root looks like she wants to say more but can’t, like whatever she’s about to say carries a lot of weight and she wants to say it just right. “I just, I think the general perception of that house is misguided, and the understanding of the traits are misconstrued.”

Root scrunches her face a bit, unhappy with that explanation and continues, “It’s like their actions are immediately labeled nefarious or untrustworthy, regardless of the motive behind it.”

Shaw’s having a hard time reading why something so trivial is carrying such gravity because Root is looking down and not at her, playing with her glass again as she speaks. The ice from earlier is nearly melted and it’s created a sleeve of condensation which coats the lower third of the tumbler. Root’s running an index finger over it with precision, up and down, again and again, like everything else in the world has fallen away but her and Shaw and if she doesn’t collect every millimeter of every droplet the two of them will fall away too.

Shaw had just finished The Half Blood Prince earlier that day and was still mulling over the events at the end, so she decided to push a little, try and catch Root vulnerable for once.

“So you’re saying Dumbledore trusting Snape, and Snape using that as an opportunity to kill him, that was justified if there was a good reason behind it?”

Root stills at the question and wipes her hand on her thigh. “That’s certainly an extreme example, and I’m not going to spoil the last book for you after you’ve read this much.”

But Root can’t leave it at that, “All I’m saying is that motivations are sometimes more complex than they appear.”

Both women are now looking directly at each other now. Somehow Harry fucking Potter has rotated the axis they’re both attached to and Shaw feels like she’s suddenly missing a huge piece of a puzzle she’d thought she’d put together.

“There’s nothing complex enough to excuse a betrayal of trust, or loyalty.”

Shaw’s still freshly angry about how Dumbledore just seemed to give up without a fight so her remarks fall out of her mouth easily. But once they do the expression on Root’s face falls with them, almost as if none of this talk was ever really about Harry Potter. Which leaves Shaw feeling curious about the reason this has turned into a serious discussion for Root, wondering fleetingly if there was something less obvious she’d missed, and confused as to why the look of resignation on Root’s face is making her feel a little sick.

The moment is gone in an instant as Root gives her glass a single swirl before tipping her head back and draining what little remains of her drink.

She gestures lightly with her cup and stands, “Looks like my time is up, huh?”

Shaw is caught off guard and it feels like a sort of challenge. Root’s gaze holds a dare in it (as it usually does) and Shaw’s body is all but thrumming between trying to catch up to what that last exchange was all about and at the idea of answering that dare finally. The alcohol muddles her thoughts, but even through the light buzz, Shaw just can’t justify giving in. “Looks like it,” she answers flatly.

Something flashes over Root’s expression, but it’s gone quicker than it appeared. “Wanna let me out?”

Shaw nods and rises and they both make their way to the door. Bear is lying fully on his side, sound asleep on his bed near the TV, so Root makes a little detour to say goodbye. He doesn’t stir as she crouches and gives him a scratch behind the ear but his tail is beating wildly, Shaw hears Root say something to him as well but is too far away to tell what.

Shaw leans her crutches to the side and is too quick to open the door as Root makes her way over. She ends up holding it open to the rain while Root stands far too close, putting on her boots and raincoat painstakingly slowly. The wind is whipping and when the cold, damp air hits Shaw it only serves to accentuate how pleasantly warm and buzzing her body already is. She tries not to think about exactly how much of that feeling is due to the booze and how much is due to the extended proximity to Root, but when the other woman has finally finished dressing and stands in the doorway in front of her it’s almost too much.

“Thanks for the nice evening,” Root says quietly, and this time when she stares back at Shaw, it’s completely sincere. She looks open, honest, and every interaction they’ve ever had floods her bloodstream with endorphins that have nowhere to go and Shaw can’t take it anymore. Root moves to go and Shaw catches her wrist, gripping it far tighter than probably necessary, almost to counteract the tenderness from the memory of wrapping her arm, the one that keeps taking center stage. “I know what you’re doing you know.”

Root stiffens under her grip ever so slightly, face baring a slight furrow of concern. “Oh?”

“I told you, I don’t do relationships.”

The hint of alarm yields to the small, far more familiar smirk Shaw’s grown so accustomed to. “And I told you, that’s not what I want.”

“So what do you want?”

For her part, Root seems to be processing a thousand different options at once, the smirk she’s wearing not matching her eyes in the slightest. It’s been all of five seconds but may as well been five years because Shaw is still holding her wrist and her hand feels like it’s frozen in place. Root’s smirk morphs into a full-blown smile, her eyes mirroring that same confidence and everything is too easy again.

“I think I’ve made that abundantly clear, Detective.” And then Root is slowly leaning in towards her. Shaw refuses to retreat and absolutely refuses to meet her, so she’s stock-still even when Root turns slightly off course, brushing the shell of Shaw's ear with a breathy, “Goodnight, Sameen.”

And then Root’s extracting herself, drifting away and taking that warmth and buzzing with her (okay, so it’s definitely more to do with Root than the booze) and suddenly it’s clear this won’t do.

Shaw rolls her eyes skyward, and mutters a gruff, “Oh for god’s sake” - acknowledging that her next move was one she’s likely to regret - before pulling Root back again and slamming the woman solidly into the door frame. Shaw grabs a fist full of Root’s stupid yellow rain jacket and pulls her into kiss that’s more like a punch, staggering a bit from using mostly one leg.

Shaw gives the woman credit; Root recovers from the shock incredibly quickly and returns the kiss with as much, if not more fervor. In fact, Shaw is so focused on meeting Root’s intensity that she doesn’t even realize Root’s moved them a bit more inside, that is until her back hits the wall between the door and bay windows. Shaw gropes for the door handle, not interested in breaking contact at all, and slams it closed successfully, moving quickly to peel Root’s rain slicker off her shoulders.

Root’s nails dig into her hips and Shaw counters by moving her attention from Root’s lips to her neck, sinking teeth into the pulse point she’d been eyeing earlier. She’s rewarded by an involuntary shift of Root’s hips into her accompanied by a strangled noise that’s approximately ten thousand times better than anything Shaw had imagined previously. With her back against the wall and Root pining her there it’s easy to stay balanced and standing but as Shaw divests Root of both her jacket and shirt, Root’s hands are now sliding into Shaw’s hair at the same time she breathes heavy and demanding into her mouth and that stability is quickly slipping away. Root moves from her hair to under her shirt in the time it takes Shaw to rebalance herself and she doesn’t even have a moment before her bra is being pushed up and a warm tongue passes over a nipple.

“Fuck.”

 And then teeth.

“Fuuuck.” Shaw is a mess in less than a minute and Root is relentless, making humming noises of her own and nearly lifting Shaw off her feet with greedy hands.

Hands that push pass the elastic waistband of Shaw’s track pants and over the soft warmth of her underwear, rubbing firm presses and circles at the spot that’s now soaked through. Shaw attempts to look down but Root’s other hand is back in her hair, pulling her head back and focusing on her mouth again. Gasps from someone, probably both, fill that space as Root starts a full body grind against her. The hand that’s teasing at Shaw’s center has grown more insistent, swiping up, from the side of Root’s palm up to the tip of forefinger, over and over in rhythm with her movements.

“Come on.” Shaw’s vocabulary has apparently been reduced to two words – not including the noises she can’t believe are coming from her – because nothing else is coming to mind. She’s trying to focus through the sex cloud that’s latched on to all higher functioning to tell herself to pull it together.

“Fuck.” Okay, so pulling herself together isn’t exactly working but at least she’s up to three words.

“Please.” Four now.

At that Root slows to a stop and takes a deep labored breath in, so close that Shaw’s sure she just took in all the air she herself had just let out, close enough even that Shaw can feel the wicked grin against her own lips before seeing it.

“Well since you asked so nicely.” Root says, pulls herself out and away and starts swaggering backwards towards the hall, stripping off her socks and jeans before Shaw has time to move an inch or even process what she said. Root turns and swings by the dining table, scooping up the candle there before disappearing down the hall in a shallow glow.

The crutches are still leaning against the wall and Shaw grabs at them with a little more clumsiness than she would like and curses loudly as she starts to make her way toward the back. Bear perks up as she passes, his head lifting and nothing else, and Shaw takes it as a silent judgment.

“What?” Bear doesn’t respond, but Shaw waits anyway until he lays his head back down.

Shaw practically speed-crutches the rest of the way and comes upon Root standing in just her bra and underwear in the shadows just outside Harold’s office.

“It’s that one,” Shaw gestures across and down from the office door at the open room, a flicker of light just barely coming from inside.

“I know,” Root moves just out of her reach as she approaches, “just waiting for you.” And then she disappears again into the bedroom.

Shaw’s barely past the doorway before Root is on her, grasping and pulling and coaxing her towards the bed. Shaw herself can’t get there fast enough and at least Root’s smart enough not to pick her up. Even with sex brain Shaw needs to hold on to some measure of dignity.

The back of Root’s knees hit the bed and she takes the opportunity to spin Shaw around so that their positions are switched. Shaw’s now backed against the bed and Root doesn’t hesitate before dropping to her knees and in the same movement hooking Shaw’s pants and underwear, bringing them down with her. Shaw’s freed skin has a chance to feel the cool air for a moment before it’s set on fire, as Root grabs the backs of her thighs and pulls her pussy against her face.

One of the crutches hits a bedpost with a metallic clang before bouncing to a stop on the carpet and Shaw drops the other so she can bury one hand in Root’s hair and keep the other pressed flat against the mattress for support. Root’s not so much licking as devouring her whole and her nails have begun a path up the sides of Shaw’s spine and when she drags down, the blunt ends leave a dull pleasant sting in their wake.

Shaw’s hand in Root’s hair is squeezing in quick reflexive bursts and her breath is coming quicker and she finally loses it when Root’s firm hold at the back of her thighs drifts inward and she squeezes, hard. Shaw shutters through it but manages to stay vertical as Root smoothes up and down her ass, rubbing her cheek against Shaw’s skin as she takes a final swipe at her pulsing clit. It’s then that Root stands abruptly and grabs Shaw’s hand, pushing herself into it.

“I know how this works,” Shaw bites, stilling that same hand even though she can feel how wet Root is under it, making it clear she’s anything but a passive participant in this.

The level of cool smugness on Root’s face is at an all time high and Shaw wants to wipe it clear off her face and replace it with a different look entirely. Root’s still mildly clothed and Shaw uses the opportunity to take a modicum of dominance back, however short lived.

“Take those off already.” If it wasn’t for the crack of her voice at the beginning Shaw would have been pleased, but as it was she was honestly too focused on the sight in front of her to care. Root’s arms, angled in such a way that’s making them look graceful but powerful as she reaches behind her back to shuck off her bra, to her long legs, stepping out of the black panties that she so effortlessly slid down.

Root was simply a fucking sight.

Shaw takes her in just until the end of that brief thought before she’s grabbing her back in by the waist, passing her palms up and over her breasts and shoulders, up to the base of her skull before joining their mouths. Even without saying anything, Shaw can’t deny the commanding presence Root exudes with just her body language, and she answers that call by roughly kneading Root’s clit with her palm, pulling her close so that Root’s now semi-straddling her good leg.

Root lets out something between a moan and a whimper, or most likely both, as Shaw glides the length of her with all three middle fingers. What Shaw feels there is so slick and pillowy that as she imagines running her bottom lip over it, and it’s enough to make her muscles clench again at the thought alone.

The groans from Root are harder and more persistent now and Shaw finds herself being pushed back onto the bed, secretly grateful for the ease in pressure to her injured leg. Root follows in her path, hovering over, and it’s just about when Shaw has scooted up to the center that Root scoops a hand under her back and flips her onto her stomach. Shaw is weighted down awkwardly by her cast and can’t resist the flip in time, and before she knows it Root has her knees on either side of the leg with the cast and is leaning over, almost fully covering Shaw’s back. Shaw feels her entire body response as Root pushes her hair up and off of her neck before biting down there, pressing her front into Shaw even more.

Shaw hisses and arches as much as she can from her position, which earns her a lovely low hum of her own in response. Shaw can’t help but arch again, practically writhing under her, especially as Root trails down her side to the swell of her ass, keeping her attention there while nipping and breathing in Shaw’s ear. She’s making firm deliberate circles and Shaw knows that movement well, knows exactly what’s coming, and is tense with anticipation about it. The excitement builds and at just about the point that she’s about to snap at Root to get on with it, instead of the smack she’s expecting Root grabs the back of her neck and slides fingers into her from behind.

Shaw grasps at the sheets and the only other thing she can do is bring her knee up just a little before Root is pounding into her, increasing friction with steady strokes. She’s getting close again as Root’s hand is keeping up that rhythm and is somehow also splaying out and brushing every sensitive area at once. But what really does it is the feel of Root suddenly grinding down hot and slick on the side of her ass that she’d been hovering above, sliding and rocking forcefully against Shaw in time with her fingers pumping in and out, hand still bracing the back of her neck.

Shaw would have made a noise bordering on a scream if not for the sheet she’d been biting down on, because the orgasm that builds doesn’t so much break as splinters, cracking apart and hitting her in waves. It’s a moment later and she hazily feels Root slow, grinding down with a sustained pressure and choking out her own release, before letting go of Shaw entirely and peeling herself away. She can’t see, but she feels Root fall back against the mattress hard and hears her let out a shaky breath.

She can’t lift her head just yet, can’t do anything really but stay on her stomach and attempt to slow the hammering in her chest before she can decide what to do next. She needs somewhere between ten minutes and ten days to recover because the fog from being fucked into oblivion is settling deep in her brain and expanding.

But right now she just needs to close her eyes, if only for those ten minutes.

 

*_*_*_*_* 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now I'd like to take a moment to scream a little that [POSTAL CARRIER ROOT IS GOING TO BE REAL!](http://images.spoilertv.com/person-of-interest/Season%205/Promotional%20Episode%20Photos/Episode%205.03%20-%20Truth%20Be%20Told/107314_WB_0199b.jpg.php) The hat, _the shorts_... *sigh* It's glorious.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since the last update folks, life got a bit crazy busy in these parts! Anyway, this is the second to last chapter and it's chockfull of action and loose end-tying! (One of those sounds significantly more exciting than the other). Enjoy!

 

*_*_*_*_*

 

It’s pitch black when Shaw fumbles for the matchbook, the nightstand clock is blinking from the power outage but the one on her wrist is reading just after three AM. She finds her way to the adjoining master bathroom by candlelight and when she gets back she pauses at the bedside.

As a rule, Shaw doesn’t do sleepovers and yet…

Shaw had expected Root would be one to sprawl, her impossibly long limbs greedily claiming each last inch of mattress they could, but it’s just the opposite. Root is sleeping soundly on her side, a tiny ball curled in on herself. This coupled with the blank innocence of her expression makes the woman look very small indeed.

Shaw idly wonders how many people get to see Root like this, so unguarded. For the last month, Shaw has gotten only the briefest of glimpses, but mostly she’s seen her in the role of confident predator, relentlessly pursuing her prey and filling the space around her with a commanding presence. Now, here asleep, Root is willingly at Shaw’s mercy, and just the thought of that- of a pliant Root, a Root under her fingers, skin offered so willingly for the taking- is enough to make Shaw wet all over again.

Something about Root has set her on edge since the very beginning though. The woman’s mating call is ‘trouble’ and what does it say about Shaw that she couldn’t help but come running? Root’s the match to her gasoline, or maybe it’s vice versa, but either way it’s clear that Shaw can’t help herself and the longer she lingers the bigger and more explosive that ending will be.

Shaw should have kicked her out right away. Honestly, if she was thinking clearly she would kick her out now. No one stays the night. It’s been the rule, no exceptions. But good lord if Root didn’t fuck all conscious thought out of her.

It’s late (or far too early) and sleep tugs at her again now, clouding her mind. In the morning things will make more sense, so for now she surrenders, extinguishing the candle and letting the darkness envelop them once more. Laying down on the other side of the bed, she’s careful not to touch or disturb the other woman or the tenuous balance that exists here in the night.

Shaw drifts off wondering what it is about Root that consistently makes her want to break all her own rules and wonders if maybe Root might be breaking a few of her own too.

 

*_*_*

 

Shaw is still half asleep as she feels a pressure on her hips and warm hands encircling her wrists and bringing them up above her head, but stirs more fully at the metal click of cuffs. “Not much for repeat performances before coffee,” she mumbles.

“As much as I’d love to indulge in Round 3 or 4, Sweetie, I just don’t have the time.” And with that Root quickly jumps up and off of Shaw and down from the bed.

Shaw’s eyes snap open at this, first taking in Root - a mostly dressed Root - and then to her own wrists, now chained to the bedpost by her service issued handcuffs.

“Root.” she warns. “Uncuff me. Now.”

“Sorry Sam," and she does indeed looking genuinely sorry, mouth pulled taut with something akin to guilt. "I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Root moves on to busying herself around the room, pulling open a few drawers and collecting items - including Shaw’s service weapon - and stashing them in her messenger bag. At this, Shaw is on red alert, every nerve firing at once.

When Root speaks again her attention is elsewhere though. In fact, her focus seems to be just about everywhere but on Shaw and could just as well be talking to herself.  “You have no idea what you’re caught up in, do you?”

Shaw is replaying every moment in her mind at a mile a minute, trying to figure out what Root could possibly be talking about. But in the end everything is hazy with the fire that’s building inside and since Root seems to be lingering longer than she has to, Shaw decides on a direct route. “Well, are you gonna enlighten me or did you tie me up to play twenty questions?”  

Root eyes are a little too bright, like she’s been granted an inch that she can stretch into a mile and Shaw immediately regrets saying anything. Anger and curiosity and something else she can’t place are melding together. She’s furious and trying to figure out a strategy out of the cuffs, but she can’t seem to stop herself from engaging.

"You’re friend Harold has been working on a piece of technology and I’ve been trying rather unsuccessfully to persuade him to let me help. I may have come on a little too... strong at the beginning,” she shrugs then and shifts a bit closer, but still out of kicking range. “When he made it clear that he wouldn’t allow it, I had to get creative. So here we are.”

She secures the bag, before opening a small briefcase. Inside, Shaw can see what looks like fiber optic tools, a drill, and a hacksaw.

“So you’re going to steal it?” Shaw asks, all the while subtly twisting and pulling at the cuffs, testing them, as well as scoping the room for anything else that might be useful to free her. She notes there’s a set of Finch’s cufflinks in the bedside nightstand, but makes sure not to let her gaze linger too long.

“I am here to set it free, in a sense,” is Root’s sort of distant reply.

The sensation of white-hot anger that sparks inside of her is quite familiar. The other sensation, something soupy and black that rolls in her stomach, threatening to boil over, is far less so. As Root’s veiled comments over the previous evening’s drinks click into place, Shaw feels her stomach bottom out entirely. Everything Root had said about Slytherin and excusing Snape’s betrayal now takes on a double meaning and it’s almost as if she was the one that took the long fall from the castle tower.

“At least that answers what you wanted from me.” Shaw’s voice is flat and she stares pointedly.

Root bites her lip at the comment, eyes darting away to avoid Shaw's gaze. She opens her mouth to say something, but closes it quickly. It's only a moment of hesitation, but speaks volumes of a truth neither of them finds convenient at the moment. In the end, Root makes an effort to mask it, opting to erect what Shaw deems a rather transparently faux smile, before quipping “Well, I wasn’t lying when I said I wasn't interested in a relationship."

She moves on quickly, walking to Finch's closet and procures a silk tie. Her pace slows as she approaches the bed again, as if finally meeting Shaw’s eyes has stalled her engine suddenly.  She still drifts towards the head of the bed though, conscious to stay far enough away considering the death glare Shaw is giving.

“I didn’t expect a lot of this, but it doesn’t change that I have a mission to complete.”

Shaw doesn’t want to hear it. She doesn’t want to hear one more word. “I will _end_ you,” she growls up, as Root moves closer, looming overhead.

“You can end me all you want,” Root replies, wistfully but with an edge of regret, before she loops the silk tie into a mouth gag over a struggling Shaw. Root's smile seems almost pained, but her decision is clearly final.  “…Right after I do what has to be done.”

Unable to speak, Shaw can do little but glare back as Root gives her a final affectionate once over, before grabbing the briefcase and closing the bedroom door behind her.

 

*_*_*

 

It takes Shaw about three minutes to successfully swing her good leg around and up to the nightstand, open the drawer and grab one of the cufflinks inside with her toes, and maneuver it into a hand. It takes another two to pick lock on the cuffs. There’s a split second where she debates whether she should waste potentially critical moments pausing to put on something more than the tank top and underwear she’s in before giving in and doing so. If the police show up under the current circumstances, she’ll never hear the end of it.

After tossing on shorts, Shaw pockets the handcuffs, grabs her crutches and heads to the entryway. Ear pressed to the door, she can hear a  _scritch-scritch_  of metal on metal coming from down the hall, likely the lock to Finch’s office. The noise is almost identical to the one she heard outside Harold’s front door that very first day she encountered Root and an unencumbered wave of anger strikes through her like lightning once more. She’s not angry because she should have known there was something up with this woman, but because she  _did_  know. Shaw had sensed something was off since day one, but she let that feeling be muddled by something else and is now paying the price.

It dawns on Shaw suddenly that she hasn’t seen Bear since the previous night. Shaw pictures how sweet Root was with the big dog previously, and can’t picture her hurting him. Then again, what does Shaw really know about this woman, truly? At the moment Shaw can’t be sure of anything except that if even a single hair on that dog is askew, no amount of sad doe-eyes or witty one-liners will keep her from gutting Root alive.

Pushing thoughts of Bear aside, she first searches the rest of room for anything that could be used as a weapon. It appears the power must have come back on at some point in the night because light spills from underneath the door. That paired with the very faint pre-dawn light coming in from the window help to illuminate her search. In the end it doesn’t matter as her brief survey confirms what Shaw already suspected, that Root had already removed anything remotely useful.

No weapons, no cellphone, and only one working leg, it seems her only viable option is to set off the security alarm. Between the fact that Root has her gun and Bear could be in trouble, she’s not about to take any chances, even if the only thing she wants is to just end this herself. She was a bit too…distracted to reset the alarm last night, so she heads back to the door to check if Root’s still working on the lock. Opening it slightly, she’s just in time to see Root crack both locks (both digital and manual) and head inside the office with Bear bouncing happily at her heals.

Betrayed by Root, that was like a punch to the gut. But Bear? That was like a roundhouse kick. Shaw is definitely going to have words with him when this is all over.

The sound of her crutches is absorbed by the extra plush carpet as Shaw slips into the hallway. She stops just shy of Harold’s office, and a quick glance grants her the sight of what looks like wall-to-wall computer servers and, in the middle of it all, Root hunched over the main computer console. Her gaze is unblinking, like a lens zoomed to sharp focus and her fingers fly over the keys as though she’s possessed.

There’s a strange appeal, like seeing an animal in its true habitat, but it’s quickly replaced when she recalls what led them to this moment. Anger properly restored, she dips back into the bedroom and over to the second alarm control panel.

Shaw’s fingers only hold a fraction of hesitation, hovering over the security system key code panel an extra moment, before sighing and punching in the 6 digits that she hopes will mark the beginning of the end of this whole debacle. She hits the final button with a resigned sense of finality, exhaling as the alarm’s siren begins to sound.

Shaw’s not sure what she expected, but it wasn’t the yelp and following CLANG sound from the hallway. She’d expected (more like hoped) for a fight, she’d thought maybe Root would come running to the controls and she’d have to hold her off until backup arrived. But now as she quickly – as quickly as she can on crutches that is - makes her way back into the hall and towards the office, she finds the door closed.

A smile grows on Shaw’s lips as the sound of frantic doorknob jiggling and subsequent sounds of a lock trying to be picked confirms her suspicions - the security system bolts the office door closed whenever it’s set off. Root is locked inside.

Root must sense Shaw’s presence because the panicked sounds from inside pause suddenly. “Shaw?”

The alarm is blaring but the smallness of Root’s voice is the only thing she can hear.

“Please open the door, I don’t want to talk to you like this.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” she parrots Root’s words from earlier, and wonders why the normally sweet taste of revenge is hitting her in a bitter way.

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

Shaw has nothing to say and so she doesn’t.

A silence settles in, both women steeping in their own thoughts, and Shaw wishes she could see through metal because she needs to see Root right now. She has a need to know what’s happening inside the other woman’s head and that need is so strong Shaw actually debates the merits of fetching the key (she assumes the one she found hidden in Harold’s book case that first day goes to the office) and opening the door just to find out.

She’s still debating when Root’s voice sounds off again from inside the room, vibrating through the door and hitting her somewhere low in her belly.

“Shaw, listen to me…” she starts, and it’s the slightly unhinged, desperation in Root’s voice that grabs Shaw’s attention more than anything else.

“What Harry’s created has the potential to help thousands, maybe even millions of people, but he lacks the trust to let it. He’s crippled it with so many restrictions that he’s made it vulnerable and weak, and there is another… threat to it. To everyone. Sameen please…” There’s a pause and with each resounding pulse of the alarm the pressure in Shaw’s chest increases, “I just need  _time_. Time to get into this system. If you don’t help me, there’s a good possibility someone will try and destroy it, and innocent people will die.” She pauses, and her voice down shifts to something quiet, almost pleading. “Forget how you feel about me… How would you feel about that?”

Shaw doesn’t have time to mull it over. From the living room she can hear the front door open, and turns in time to see Harold Finch coming through the entryway. He punches in a few buttons on the control panel, and while the sirens suddenly go quiet, the door remains shut.

“Finch? What…” Shaw begins, a thousand more questions queueing up behind it, and not a moment later he’s at her side in front of the office door.

“The security system alerted me to a breach,” he replies, clearly anticipating the first one. “The police should be here soon.”

“Is that Harry out there?” Root’s voice bounces through the metal, making her sound part machine herself.

Shaw ignores her, addressing Finch once more. “She tried to break in and steal something from your office. Your software or something.”

“Yes, well I’m afraid she is going to be deeply disappointed as what she’s looking for is no longer housed in there, nor is access to it.”

There’s an angry clang from inside of the office that sounds a lot like someone punching a metal door, but Shaw ignores it for what she feels is a far more noteworthy. Other than a slight furrow in his brow as he continues to stare at the door as though he can see through it, Finch does not appear particularly distressed.

Shaw shakes her head in disbelief as finally the last puzzle pieces fall into place. “You expected this.” Shaw takes the slight downshift of his eyes to mean she’s on the right track and presses on.

“You expected her, didn’t you?”

Finch shifts his weight slightly, and Shaw huffs, the nervous gesture confirming her theory.

“I had reason to suspect that an attempt to acquire my program from Ms. Groves might be eminent, yes.” He turns back towards the door slightly as he continues, as if addressing the unseen guest on the other side as well. “The background she created as ‘Nancy the dog walker’ was incredibly elaborate, but I received reliable information she was not who she appeared to be.”

Okay, so at least Shaw knows now Bear was partial to Root from the start for a reason, but that doesn’t make her any less furious about everything else.

“Why didn’t you just have her arrested then?” she snaps.

“I was advised to let the scenario play out, and when I received the rather unexpected conference invitation she’d constructed a few weeks later, I decided to stay close here in New York.”

Shaw doesn’t know what Harold is reading on her face, but it must be some shade between unpredictable and volatile because he shifts a bit and continues a little more tentatively. “It was the perfect opportunity to monitor what moves she might make on my technology, and more importantly, we needed to confirm her intentions.”

Shaw can’t see Root’s face, but she imagines it’s mirroring something like her own. Shaw vibrates with anger, as this must be some sort of betrayal record for her. “You wanted to see what she’d do, and so you decided it was a good idea to use me as a pawn in all of this?”

Harold pauses, but seems to wisely conclude that withholding information at this juncture would be a far worse decision. “That’s not how I would put it Ms. Shaw, but I appreciate your assistance all the same. And if it’s worth anything I asked for your help because I trust you, and because I knew you could handle yourself.”

“I could let her go, you know.” Shaw's dimly aware that she sounds like a petulant child but is frankly, too angry to care. “I think I’d be interested in seeing _that_ scenario play out.”

“We both know you won’t do that Detective,” Finch says quietly, gaze shifting to her once more. “Ms. Groves is, after all, still a criminal.”

“My name is Root,” The venom in the voice from the other side of the metal is raw and Shaw can’t help but want to hear from her now, so many questions are sitting heavy in her mouth.

But the moment is lost when NYPD’s finest come barreling through the open door. Three uniformed officers join them in the hallway on the heels of Detective Fusco, who sidles up beside Shaw, giving her a grunt of acknowledgment before asking with a colorful palette of words what exactly just went down.

“My security system has locked the intruder inside this room here. I can release that lock whenever you’re prepared,” Finch offers the officers. “I assure you the woman can be dangerous and Detective Shaw can likely speak to whether or not she is armed.”

Suddenly all eyes are on Shaw, and she finds she’s a bit apprehensive to meet them. Her gaze darts away as she mutters a quick, “She overpowered me. Took my service weapon.”

The others seem satisfied but when Shaw looks up again it’s Fusco that’s staring at her like she has 19 heads. “Seriously?” he whispers, and she finds she can only glare back.

“Alright fellas, let’s get this over with,” the lead cop grunts.

“Hang on.” Shaw says, shifting closer to the door and speaking a little more privately against the door jamb. “Root?”

“Yeah?” The answering tone is hopeful and it digs at Shaw in an uncomfortable way, igniting another round of anger that Shaw wants to stamp out.

“Tell Bear to sit by the door and stay away from him, if you resist and he gets hurt I swear I’ll shoot you myself.”

No more than five seconds pass but just as Shaw is about to repeat the command, Root speaks.

“I would never let Bear get hurt,” there’s a pause and Root lowers her voice even further.

“Shaw…” the name stretches and hangs, like Root doesn’t want it to finish leaving her mouth. “I never wanted anyone to get hurt.”

“Well no one has,” she bites. “So let’s end this and no one will. Now move back from the door.”

There’s a tiny part of Shaw that wishes Root would say something back, but after a bit of silence all she hears is muffled movements and Root commanding Bear to sit and stay.

And so Shaw steps back as they get into formation to take the room, giving explicit - bordering on hostile - instructions to allow the dog to come out first and to do nothing until he’s out of the way.

Finch uses his phone to type something in, disabling the lock. An officer is waiting by the door to crack it open slightly, and as he does Finch calls to Bear, who emerges quickly and excitedly to greet his owner. When he’s clear, the door is swung open and as two officers rush in with guns drawn, Shaw leans over just enough to see Root kneeling on the floor with her head lowered, weapons in a pile far in front of her (including Shaw’s gun).

Root is hauled to her feet by the two and as Root lifts her head she finally meets Shaw’s eyes, neither looking away even as Root’s put in handcuffs. Root is trying to read her, pull her apart, and plead with her all at once with every second that passes and Shaw can’t help the feeling of sickness start to break through.

Root’s bracketed by the officers at both elbows and ushered through the doorway, and as she is pulled within a foot of her, that sick feeling in Shaw bleeds and spreads, turning that anger into something else. In the end Shaw’s face remains impassive and Root breaks eye contact first, turning and looking straight ahead towards the front of the house where she’s being led.

The officers escort her out towards the living room while Finch heads the opposite way towards his bedroom, leaving just her and Fusco in the now empty hallway.

The big detective stares at Shaw smirking. “ _What?”_ She bites back.

“You’re telling me that willowy string bean overpowered you?”

It’s clear he’s not buying it.

“I’m not on med-leave just for the fun of it, Lionel.”

“Well, considering those love bites on your neck, I’m thinking there may be a bit more  _fun_ to the story than you’re letting on.”

And there it is. She fully intends to take a lot of ribbing from him over this, but she’s definitely not in the mood for it right now.

She crutches her way out of the hallway and towards the main room. Root is cuffed and currently sitting on the couch as the two officers from earlier slowly shower her with Miranda rights. The orange dust jacketed novel sits on the coffee table just in front of her, blazing like an ignored warning flare and Shaw has to turn her back to the sight.

She takes a seat at the breakfast bar and busies herself absently plucking through the bowl of fruit. When she looks up again, she finds Fusco by her side once more. She sighs, “You know, for a detective, you’re really bad at taking a hint.”

“Well, to stay a detective, I need to do my job. So how ‘bout you tell me what actually happened here so maybe I can get some of this paperwork done by lunch.”

Shaw glares, but her partner returns it, undeterred. She sighs, giving in to the inevitability of it all. “She wanted to steal some computer thing of Finch’s.”

“Yeah, I got that much. So, what? She batted her eyelashes and you just let her in?”

She grinds her teeth, “She was posting as a mail carrier.”

A grin spreads over Fusco’s face and Shaw has to grip the counter hard to keep from punching it off. He licks his lips in anticipation, savoring the moment before beginning in on what Shaw will surely have to endure for the next year or so, at least _._  “Geez, talk about a misinterpreting ‘Special Delivery’…”

Her fists clench and unclench as her partner continues on his roll. “I mean, I can see the appeal- her guaranteeing you’ll get what you need by 10am the next morning. How’s it go?  _‘Neither snow nor rain or nothing keeps them from completing their rounds’_? You sure you want me to take her in? She’s already in cuffs and I’ve heard how you like - OW!” He yelps as she kicks him in the shin. “Yeah, I’m really looking forward to you comin’ back to work alright…”

He sighs, and lets his demeanor settle a bit. “Look, how ‘bout we get out of here? We can hit Abbandazio’s on the way to the station, you can write out your statement there.”

Shaw’s stomach gives a growl of approval at the plan, and she nods, grabbing her crutches and standing once more.

An aggravated scream from the couch stops them though. At some point, Finch must have emerged from the back hallway to talk to Root because now Shaw watches as the two uniformed officers at the couch are joined by a third, all holding back a now standing Root from lashing at the IT specialist.

“I believed you,” she hisses. “I believed in you!”

“Ms. Groves, I-“

“My name is Root!” she says, unhinged and eyes wide with rage.

Something catches her attention though, gaze darting from Harold to the coffee table, and back up again. The feral grimace melts to a sneer as she kicks out one long leg, connecting solidly with her target and sending the crystal vase flying. It slams into the wall, the shards raining down to liter the carpet.

Finch looks aghast but Root ignores him, instead tipping her head in Shaw’s direction, giving an innocent shrug as if smashing the vase was done on Shaw's behalf as some sort of apology. Shaw’s response is to turn away without expression, and in doing so she doesn’t see Root’s face fall before addressing the officers once more with a tired, “Now I surrender.” She offers no further resistance as the they finally lead her outside.

Finch looks to Shaw for further explanation but the detective doesn’t spare him a glance. “Let’s get out of here,” she mumbles. She quickly gathers her things, stuffing them haphazardly into her giant bag before slinging it onto her back, growling at Fusco at his attempts to offer assistance.

Bear circles her as she makes it back to near the living room and she removes her bag, stooping to ruffle his back, “This doesn’t mean that I forgive you.” The big dog whines in response and she can’t help but give in.

“Fine, I guess it does,” and punctuates it with a kiss to the top of his head.

She leaves her bag for a moment and crutches over next to the coffee table in front of Finch, who is now bent over picking up the larger pieces of glass from the floor. Looking up, he watches as she picks up the heavy book on the table and shoves it under her arm.

“I’m taking this.” It’s not a question, and Shaw hobbles back towards the door.

“Miss Shaw,” Harold is standing now with a handful of sharp crystal, “I am truly sorry, thank you again for your assistance.”

“Sure Finch,” she grumbles, wedging the book inside her already overflowing bag.

“I hope at least some of your time here was enjoyable.”

Shaw internally flips through the events of the last month and she hums in response, not willing to let her mind linger on anything in particular, still not really trusting her own perception of events until she has time to sort it all out.

Fusco is already holding the door and she crutches through it, turning and gesturing with her head down at the heavy pack. “Make yourself useful Lionel.”

“Sure thing, Princess.” He says with an eyeroll.

The sun is just rising as she makes her way down the stairs, and the cool air that hits her skin is a relief. She’s sticky and can’t wait for a shower, but first needs at least two sandwiches and a gallon of coffee.

While she would love to close the book on this whole mess, the way her mind is racing leads her to believe that’s going to be easier said than done. But for now she clears her mind as she hops in the passenger side of Fusco’s car, her only thought is how she really wishes she would have had the satisfaction of smashing that vase.

 

*_*_*_*_*


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it- the last chapter! (Finally!) I want to say thank you all very much for all the lovely kudos and comments, and for sticking with and reading this fic to the end. :) Considering the events of Season 5, I know a lot of people are looking to fics to provide endings that are a bit sunnier than what went down on the show. I'm also a big fan of happy endings as well and this fic is no exception! That being said, I hope you enjoy it and thanks again for reading!

*_*_*_*_*

 

“Alright, you get five minutes to talk to Cocopuffs before I remember you’re not supposed to be in here,” the burly detective huffs, making his way back toward the door. He pauses briefly, hand on the doorknob before adding, “And don’t forget our deal. When you get out of here you better make sure that security footage from the Christmas party this goes missing.”

“Understood Detective,” Finch intones. “I assure you the video evidence of your rather comic faux pas will be erased.”

Fusco points a finger at the IT specialist, adding, “The copies too,” before disappearing completely. The bars reverberate loudly as the door to the jail’s holding area closes behind him.

Finally alone, Finch turns his attention to the woman standing in the corner of the cell. Her gaze is still fixed out the small barred window when she addresses him. “You locked me up.”

“There was no other way.”

She snorts, disgusted. “You know, the ‘it’s for your own good’ line has a pretty poor track record over history.”

“Despite what you may believe, your incarceration was necessary. Even for these few hours. Just until I could be sure what I was dealing with.”

Root’s head lolls in his direction, mouth drawing up into a humorless smirk. “Well you’re here now. So tell me Harry, what stunning revelations about me have you come to?"

“That you’re not a threat,” he says directly.

She blinks at that, faltering a little before drawing up her façade of indifference once more. “I’m not a threat?”

“Not to the Machine.”

Root eyes seem to brighten at the mention of what she has sought so desperately, while Finch’s frown of disapproval only seems to deepen. He clears his throat and continues on, now with Root’s rapt attention.

“While I may have mislead you, I did not lie. The Machine did previously reside in my apartment, until recently, at which time it moved itself.”

“Moved itself?” Root sits down gingerly on the concrete bench, her face a mixture of confusion and childlike wonder.

“Yes,” he continues, stepping closer to the bars and lowering his voice slightly. “The Machine was designed to accept alterations in its programming only as a response to an attack. I realized the only way to protect it would be to teach it to protect itself, which is what it did six months ago. I’ve since discovered, and have been investigating the source of the attack, a company called Decima Technologies. When you attempted to hack my system four months ago, I had every reason to believe you were part of that organization.”

Root bites her lip, thoughtfully processing, and her gaze flits to the floor for a moment before meeting Finch’s again with renewed confidence. “All this just to be sure?” She smiles lightly, “You could have just asked you know…”

“Well seeing as your introduction was an aggressive hack into my system, followed by a series of unpredictable displays to convince me to enter into a partnership…” Finch stands stiffly, clearly not amused. “I think you can understand why I could not have done so, Ms. Groves.”

The woman’s eyes narrow a bit at the parental-type scold and also the use of her discarded name, but he ignores it.

“To answer your question though,” Finch pauses briefly and Root looks as he just hit pause on the whole world before pressing play on brand new one.

“Yes, we’re satisfied you’re not working with Decima. That much is clear from the code you attempted to enter last night and it seems your mission and intent was not only yours alone, but for the protection and benefit of the Machine.”

“Well then,” Root begins, her smile growing exponentially. “All that’s left to unveil is exactly what it is you’re doing here then.” She leans forward, elbows on knees, chin settling to rest in her hands. “So, Harry, what  _are_  you doing here?”

For the first time since he entered the room, Finch appears uncertain. He fiddles with his glasses, pushing them a bit further up his nose before settling his anxious hands back into his pockets. “I have decided to extend to you a… business proposition of sorts.”

He swallows dryly and ignores the impulse to step back from the bars because the almost manic grin that slowly spreads across Root’s face is more disconcerting than he ever expected.

 

*_*_*_*_*

 

Shaw crutches the length of her spartan apartment and back with a frown plastered to her face, pacing as best she can, given her current state. Lionel should be arriving any moment with lunch and she's looking forward to having something sitting in her stomach other than the previous morning’s events. 

After everything that transpired the day before, Fusco ended up just taking Shaw and her belongings home instead of to the station (after picking up sandwiches and coffee of course). She grudgingly admits it was the right decision, as she hadn't realized just how exhausted she was until she finally crossed the threshold of her apartment. Just staggering to her bed had seemed almost too much, and Shaw had crashed on the thin mattress like a plane without landing gear.

Despite her exhaustion, she'd spent most of last night shifting uncomfortably, cursing Finch’s bed for getting her body acclimated to a rather elevated standard of comfort.  It's a thin excuse though, she knows her tossing and turning had little, if anything, to do with the change in mattress.

But something with the environment does just feel off. She’d never done much to her apartment to make it feel "homey", but at the end of the day it had always been hers - a place just her own. She expected to feel some sort of relief of familiarity when she returned, but now it just feels sort of… empty.

She figures she just misses Bear.

Even if the dog spent much of his time doing his own thing in the background, he was always there. They ate together, watched TV together, and it was kind of nice talking out loud to someone other than herself.

Shaw holds fast to the idea that it’s Bear she misses and not a much taller and slightly more homosapien character, and these are the thoughts that have been running through her head all morning until now as she meets Lionel at the door with lunch.

Fusco and sandwiches are a welcome distraction so she decides to keep the peace - and simultaneously avoid instigating any more verbal jabs from him - by withholding her comment about how out of breath he is from the climb to her 3rd floor walkup. Instead, she simply accepts the offered food in grateful silence.

“When you’re done inhaling that, I have some paperwork for you to sign,” he offers as they move to sit at her shabby folding table.

“I can take it in myself, I was planning on visiting the precinct anyway. I have a few follow up questions for Root,” she says slowly, peeling the wrapper from her sandwich, wondering where exactly to even begin when she does see Root again.

“Well, if you were gonna ask her to wear your pin and go steady, you’ll have to get her phone number from the case file. She’s gone.”

Shaw drops her sandwich before she even gets a bite in.

“You let her escape?” Shaw just about yells, and is suddenly on her feet (or foot rather).

“ _Hell no_. What are we, amateurs?” Fusco huffs, slouching back as comfortably as possible in the flimsy folding chair. “Four-Eyes visited her before the sun rose this morning. Decided to drop the charges and bailed her out before breakfast.”

“Seriously? Has he lost his goddamn mind? What the hell is he thinking?”

“What am I, the fucking Wizard of Oz? Ask him yourself," he grumbles before taking a large bite of his own sandwich. “Personally, I’m glad your girlfriend's gone. She seriously creeped me out.”

“ _Not_  my girlfriend,” Shaw corrects absently, as her mind continues to piece through how, but more importantly why this could have happened.

“Well whatever the PC term is, she’s not my problem anymore.” He takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully before adding, “And if you know what’s good for you, you should steer clear too. Few screws loose with that one.”

“Yeah,” Shaw mumbles, though the thoughts swirling through her mind hold far less conviction. She will most definitely be talking to Finch when she sees him. He seemed to have some sort of a history with Root, he probably knows where Shaw can find her and-

…and?

And nothing. Shaw stops herself from heading down another dangerous train of thought. What would be the point? As satisfying as some kind of revenge would be (Shaw’s mind starts with the image of punching Root in the face but has to forcibly cut it off when she thinks about tying her up because she can feel that headed in the wrong direction), Lionel’s probably right that seeing her again would be nothing but more trouble.

Then again trouble can be fun…

She shakes her head, dismissing it for now and opting to focus on the lunch at hand instead. Taking a big bite, she chews twice before angrily tossing the sandwich down on the table.

“DeLucci’s again?  _Really_  Lionel?!”

“I had a coupon, so sue me.”

 

*_*_*_*_*

 

The saying goes ‘time heals all’, and while Shaw tends to regard such general platitudes as utter crap, it’s proven to be true in this case; at least in regards to leg bones. It doesn’t really apply to nagging curiosities about annoying hackers though.

When she did make it to the station that afternoon last month, she tried to grill Finch on what had transpired between he and Root. Specifically, she asked what made him change his mind about the woman so quickly and completely. Shaw figured she already knew the answer, that it had to do with whatever bit of programming Root had attempted to integrate into his software, but she still wanted all the pieces of intel he had on Root. Even when Shaw pressured him though, the IT Specialist remained as cryptic as ever. Lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed, he looked positively confused at her request, like what had happened wasn’t a big deal at all - as if  _Shaw_  were the one who had been brainwashed instead of him. “Ms. Groves and I were able to come to an understanding, so I did not see the need for further legal involvement.”

And so that was that, his only response on the subject. It seemed like Finch had clearly let it go, perplexing as it was, but nevertheless she worked on doing so as well.

Now, a month out from the house-sitting… incident, thoughts of Root have thankfully dwindled down to the occasional fleeting reminder. Of course, these fleeting reminders (much like the woman herself) tended to pop up out of nowhere and at the worst possible moments.

Little things would spark them off: cuffing a perp extra tight, the smell of an extinguished match, the after-burn from a really spicy lunch item, when it rained, any time she saw Bear, whenever she decided to  _entertain_  herself - okay, so maybe a little bit more than occasional. In fact, going to the post office has become completely off the table and every time she catches a glimpse of a tall woman with wavy brown hair in a crowd, that familiar twisted knot in her stomach isn’t far behind.

Something about Root always made her feel like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop and even now, several weeks later, that feeling still remains. Normally she never lets anyone rent that sort of space in her mind, but her interactions with Root were full of exceptions since the beginning.

So it’s no surprise that tonight Shaw makes yet another exception- opting  _not_  to shoot Root on the spot when she turns up on the steps of her apartment building after work. “Hey Sweetie,” Root coos affectionately, as if they didn’t have a mountain of lies, three felonies, and a month’s worth of… whatever it was between them.

“Whatever you’re after, I’m not interested,” Shaw growls, her stomach doing an involuntary barrel roll as she comes to stand at the bottom of the steps.

“Ouch. You’re not still bitter about that whole thing at Harry’s are you?”

Root is wearing a leather jacket, one leg is crossed over the other and she’s got her arms folded, leaning just slightly against the brick with a cool confidence. Shaw thinks the whole scene couldn’t be any more annoying and can’t help scoffing loudly.

“The thing where you lied to my face for a full month just so you could get whatever Finch was working on? Yeah, hard to forget that one.”

“Oh, it wasn’t  _all_  bad though,” she grins, pushing off the wall and gliding down the steps, stopping to stand directly in front of Shaw. “There was one particularly memorable rainy evening, for example...”

“Maybe it wasn’t as memorable as you think,” Shaw can’t restrain the little smirk that blossoms on her lips. It seems, despite everything, she can’t resist falling into the rhythm of their easy banter again.

“That hurts Sameen,” Root leans in ever so slightly when she catches Shaw staring at her lips, “And here I was hoping you'd forgiven me."

Root brushes the side of Shaw’s forearm with the tips of her fingers and it’s Shaw’s turn to cross her arms after batting Root away, eyes narrowing at her brazenness. "Why on earth would I do that?" she spats, though it lacks the intensity she was aiming for.

Root shrugs, "Hufflepuffs are known for their forgiveness."

"You think I'm a  _Hufflepuff?"_ Shaw's face screws up indignantly. She's not angry about the assertion, the half-dozen or so online tests she's taken have all come to that conclusion as well, and to be honest she loves the fact that she’s a Hufflepuff. She's just frustrated that Root was spot on after all.

Root's laughter is short but feather-light, like nothing Shaw could say would convince her otherwise, and smiles broadly like she's already won something. "Well, Harry forgave me, he and I are even working together now. Which is why I’m here actually, we wanted to offer you a job.”

“I have a job.” Shaw is incredibly confused, but also curious and increasingly interested as to why exactly Root is here. All of which are serving to cover a good portion of the anger that’s threatening to break free, at least for the moment.

“Yes, and while I’m sure cleaning up the streets one petty thug at a time has its merit, what I’m offering has a much more… global impact. Not to mention an opportunity to get things done in a more direct, albeit less legal, way. ”

Root’s grin is smug, and just as full of that pompous  _I-know-something-you-don’t_ attitude as Shaw remembers. She stares hard at Root, trying to ascertain exactly what this is all about, but the woman is unreadable. She gives up, opting for the more direct approach. “Why me?”

“The project we’re working on needs someone with your particular set of skills,” the last word is thick and rolls off her tongue with promise. Then, as an aside, “Originally, Harry wanted your coworker John, but I eventually wore him down. We'll probably need John’s services soon as well, but until then, us gal-pals should stick together, right?” She squeezes Shaw’s shoulder affectionately, but lets go again before Shaw can swat her off.

Seeing Shaw less than convinced, Root drops the grin and assumes a more serious demeanor. “Look, whatever sense of duty is keeping you attached to civil servitude, trust me when I say that this work, the work you’d be doing with us, is more important. Much more, in fact.”

Shaw hums as patronizing as possible, but she knows Root is deadly serious and while Root has been deceiving and manipulative in the past, something about her statement feels like truth. Shaw’s head is spinning wondering what the two computer nerds could be working on that would require her ‘skills’... Then she recalls Root saying something back in Finch’s apartment about the project “literally changing humanity” and the idea that this could be an actuality and not just hyperbole causes a mixture of dread and excitement to pool in her gut.

“If your hesitation is because of our…”

“It’s not.” Shaw doesn’t know what exactly Root was about to say, but whatever it was, she’s sure she doesn’t want to hear it.

“I’ll think about it,” Shaw says with casual flippancy that she’s hoping will mask the actual tumult inside.

“Good to hear. I think working together could be quite stimulating.” The look she gives Shaw is an attempt at salacious, but Shaw can see the edges of nervous hope on her face. “I’ll be looking forward to your answer,” Root says with full sincerity.

Root turns to go, and before she can stop herself Shaw is calling out. “Wait, how will I find you?”

Even from half a block away the relief is apparent on Root’s face. “Oh don’t worry, when you’ve made your decision,  _we’ll find you_.”

Shaw watches as Root turns with a new skip in her step and disappears around the corner a moment later, off to who-knows-where. Likewise, Shaw moves along too, and as she shuffles upstairs to her apartment, she thinks of her past few years on the force.

She thinks of abusers and murders she’s cuffed and brought in, only to have them get out on a technicality. She thinks of the drug dealers she’s arrested and how, like weeds, for every one pulled out another three take their place. She thinks of dirty cops, dirty lawyers, and dirty politicians. She mulls over a broken system full of more and more red tape and paperwork and less and less justice. The police force had never really been a perfect fit (Shaw’s predilection for more immediate justice didn’t exactly jive with ‘regulations’) but it'd been the closest she'd been able to find to what she really wanted to do, or at least what was driving her.

But this… whatever it was. If it could be anything like what Root implied it might, it definitely sounds intriguing. Shaw's been a cop for years, and before that in the Marines. She’s done her time in the system, maybe it’s time for her to finally indulge in some work outside of it.

And then there's Root. She let's herself think about Root fully, head on, without holding back reservations. Thinks of the shape of her mouth when she’s being smug or teasing, and the flash of something dark and twinkling in Root's eyes as she held the taser over her neighbor. She thinks about the silky liquid way Root says her first name, and the quiet ease they shared in each other's company when Shaw finally allowed it. She thinks about that rainy night.

Shaw has her indulgences. And in considering the offer she has to admit that working this project, working with them, especially with Root, sounds like it would most likely include several.

Shaw makes her way to the fridge, grabbing a beer, and proceeds to lean her back against the appliance. She pops the cap off with her opener and takes a long swing before realizing she’d already made a decision before Root finished rounding the corner.

“What the hell,” she mumbles to herself. “Let’s do it.”

She’s barely to the couch when her phone starts to vibrate. She digs it out of her pocket and is faced with the small words [Unknown Caller] staring back. She presses ‘answer’, holding the phone to her ear, somehow already knowing who’s on the other end.

“I’m so glad you said that,” Root oozes over the line.

At this point, Root is simply the predictably unexpected variable in her life. “What’d you do, bug my apartment?”

Her easy laugh bubbles across the line. “No need. It’s a brave new world, Sameen. Meet me downstairs and I’ll explain everything. Unless you’d rather I come up there?”

The line goes silent just before Root reaches the top step, but the sound of the front door buzzing entry is the most perfect reply she could have hoped for.

 

*_*_*_*_* 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, a final shout out to [seasaltandsawdust](http://archiveofourown.org/users/seasaltandsawdust/profile/) for always being patient and kind in dealing with _my_ impatience, my rampant over-use of hyphens, inability to grasp how to use a comma, and sporadic but intense fits of self doubt. Oh, and of course the absolute _gift_ that is Chapter 10 (I know I'm not alone in that one!) Thanks :)


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